"My teachers have told me that my voice was fine," she said, quietly, "and—and I have sung in school-concerts a few times. The people praised me, then."
"It is no wonder you were not afraid to sing after me," he said. "I was afraid for you at first. You see I have practised for many years and people think me a better performer than the most. But I own that my light has paled before a brighter star."
"You must not say so," she said quickly. "I have only had a few months' training. My voice is not at all cultivated."
"It is naturally superb," he answered; "I have heard voices in opera that were no sweeter than yours. And yet they were prima donnas whom all the world praised. Perhaps you have heard that, too, before."
"My teacher told me I might successfully choose an operatic career," she answered quietly, yet with a sigh whose meaning he did not understand.
"I hope you will not do so," he answered quickly. "I have always so much disliked the idea of a public life for a woman."
"We talked of that at school," she replied, "but our singing master thought quite differently. He declared that a really fine voice actually belonged to the world."
"Shall you return to the school this winter?"
"No," with a quickly suppressed sigh.
"You have wearied of it, perhaps," he said.