He laughed. “Dear me, that is a very famous person who is an intimate friend of mine and a friend of my other intimate friends. Her name is Ernestine Christian and she is a pianist. Paderewski thinks no one plays Beethoven as well as Ernestine—you may meet her some day. But remember that in New York the portraits of ladies hanging nearest gentlemen’s desks are never likely to be their wives. Tell me, what do you think of the painting?”
“That it was by the same artist who did those.” Thurley pointed childishly.
“Right—Collin Hedley—you’ve heard of him?”
She shook her head. “We live at Birge’s Corners,” she said demurely.
“Then you will hear of him, particularly if you meet Miss Christian. Collin painted her portrait as a revenge, because she insisted that men with Van Dyke beards always have a queer sense of humor. I take it you understand who boasts of a Van Dyke beard. Then they gave me the picture because I am so fond of them both.” He was leading the way across the room.
As she stepped inside the anteroom, Hobart closed the door. Looking about she saw tawny, rough plaster walls, highly polished floors, a white marble mantel seemingly unconscious of the fire of birch logs ready to be kindled. Gold-colored curtains shut out daylight; peasant chairs with rush seats and a great, dark-wooded settle piled with cushions gave the proper background for the piano which stood in the center of the room.
“Sit down,” Hobart said pleasantly. “I was so interested in your fairy godmother that I have not had a good look at you. There—so—I can see your eyes. How old are you?” His voice changed to that of an impersonal and rather impatient stranger’s.
“A little past twenty. Does it matter how old a person is?”
“Find that out for yourself! Sometimes—sometimes not. Now tell me, where were you born and educated and are you engaged to half a dozen lads in Birge’s Backyard or wherever it is? And why do you want to be an opera singer, and what has led you to fancy you could be? Is it because Miss Clergy has advanced you money? Before you answer, let me add that money does not keep you in grand opera or any other art work. I’m not saying that occasionally it does not get you in, although not as often as envious laymen like to imagine. But it cannot keep you on the stage or in the hearts of the people unless you merit the so doing. You must use your brain, as well as sing. You may have the voice of angels and yet fail on the operatic or dramatic stage. You may have the angelic voice and heavenly beauty and celestial gowns—and still be registered as zero, unless you use your brain. You must employ intellect, wit, sincerity, industry, the same as if you were building a house or cooking a meal or raising a family. A mediocre singer with brains can always surpass naturally endowed, but mentally sluggish, singers. Remember that!” He leaned back in his chair and his gray eyes narrowed somewhat; the dimples in his chin vanished and with them the good-natured, kindly expression.