“Not if I’m to have new clothes. That’s morning work——”
“There’s so much to say. I’ve thought about you in a lot of strange places——”
She leaned forward and said with a pitiful quiet, “Once, you only wanted me to be good.”
Then it dawned on him. “Good God, Bessie,” he cried, “I don’t want you to be bad!”
She regarded him, playing with the stem of her glass, as of old time. A curious being he was to her, and quite inexplicable.
“You love me?” she asked.
The bass now beckoned, and she fled.
3
Bellair saw that one may have a gift from heaven, a superb singing-voice, for instance, but that one must also furnish the thought behind it. It was not that Bessie Brealt lacked ambition; in fact, she had plenty of that, but it was the sort that cannot wait for real results. She did not see the great singer; she had not a thought to give with her song. She had not the emotions upon which a great organ of inspiration might be built with the years. Already she was touched with the world; the world stirred her desires; matters of first importance in her mind were the things she wanted.
She was not different from the thousands, from the millions, in this. He had not altogether lost the conviction that she might be made different. Already she was singing too much; her voice would never reach its full measure under these conditions. She would suffer the fate of the countless high-bred colts that are ruined by being raced too young, being denied the right to sound maturity. She should have been out of the life-struggle for years yet; in the country, in the perfect convent of natural life. She had not answered the true call, but meanwhile a call had come; its poison had entered. Bellair saw that the process before him, if any, was to break before building.... If consummate art were used, might not Bessie be helped to conceive the great career? Of course that thought must come first. However, he was far from believing that any art of his could be consummate.... Speaking that night of her new opportunity, he said: