Brindley into their society. They had
little parties at the flat in Fifty-ninth Street--the most
delightful little parties imaginable--dinners and suppers,
music, clever conversations, flirtations of a harmless
but fascinating kind. If anyone had accused Mildred
of neglecting her work, of forgetting her career,
she would have grown indignant, and if Mrs. Brindley
had overheard, she would have been indignant for her.
Mildred worked as much as ever. She was making
excellent progress. She was doing all that could be done.
It takes time to develop a voice, to make an opera-singer.
Forcing is dangerous, when it is not downright useless.
In May--toward the end of the month--Stanley
Baird returned. Mildred, who happened to be in unusually
good voice that day, sang for him at the Jennings
studio, and he was enchanted. As the last note died
away he cried out to Jennings:
``She's a wonder, isn't she?''
Jennings nodded. ``She's got a voice,'' said he.
``She ought to go on next year.''
``Not quite that,'' said Jennings.
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