“I don't want to keep the pleasure all to myself,” replies the man, peevishly. “I'm not selfish enough for that. We have no right to hide our light under a bushel. The world has a claim on our talents. And the world pays for them, too. Think of the money—think of how we might live! Ah, Florence, what a disappointment you've been to me!”
She listens as one who has many times heard the same plaint; and answers as one who has as often made the same answer:
“I have tried, but my voice is not strong enough for the concert stage, and the choirs are all full.”
“You know well enough where your chance is. With your looks, in comic opera—”
The girl frowns, and speaks for the first time with some impatience: “And you know well enough my determination about that. The one week's experience I had—”
“Oh, nonsense!” interrupted the man. “All managers are not like that fellow. There are plenty of good, gentle young women on the comic opera stage.”
“No doubt there are. But the atmosphere was not to my taste. If I absolutely had to endure it, of course I could. But we are not put to that necessity.”
“Necessity! Good Heaven, don't we live poorly enough?”
“We live comfortably enough. As long as Dick insists on making us our present allowance—”
“Insists? I should think he would insist! As if my own son, whom I brought up and started in life, shouldn't provide for his old father to the full extent of his ability!”