They came soon to her singing, and her face clouded.
"I haven't been able to get an opening. I wanted to sing the Cycle with an orchestra. But I haven't succeeded,—our Pittsburg orchestra won't look at any talent purely domestic. It is all pull over here. I haven't any influence…. You must start with some backing,—sing in private houses for great people! We don't know that kind, you see."
"And concerts?" Vickers inquired.
"The same way,—to get good engagements you must have something to show…. I've sung once or twice,—in little places, church affairs and that kind of thing."
Vickers laughed as Mrs. Conry's expressive lips curled.
"They tell you to take everything to begin with. But singing for church sociables in Frankfort and Alleghany,—that doesn't do much! I want to go to New York,—I know people there, but—"
Vickers understood that Mr. Conry objected.
"It must come sometime," she said vehemently; "only waiting is killing. It takes the life out of you, the power, don't you think?"
"Could you sing here?" Vickers asked,—"now, I mean? I might be able to arrange it."
"Oh, if you could!" Mrs. Conry's face glowed, and her fingers played nervously with her long chain. "If I could give the Cycle with your accompaniment, here in St. Louis where you are so well known—"