''
She looked at him pathetically. ``But what shall I
do?'' she asked. ``I've got no money, no experience,
no sense. I'm a vain, luxury-loving fool, cursed with
a--with a--is it a conscience?''
``I hope it's something more substantial. I hope
it's common sense.''
``But I have been working--honestly I have.''
``Don't begin lying to yourself again.''
``Don't be harsh with me.''
He drew in his legs, in preparation for rising--no
doubt to go away.
``I don't mean that,'' she cried testily. ``You are
not harsh with me. It's the truth that's harsh--the
truth I'm beginning to see--and feel. I am afraid--
afraid. I haven't the courage to face it.''
``Why whine?'' said he. ``There's nothing in that.''
``Do you think there's any hope for me?''
``That depends,'' said he.
``On what?''
``On what you want.''
``I want to be a singer, a great singer.''
``No, there's no hope.''
She grew cold with despair. He had a way of saying
a thing that gave it the full weight of a verdict
from which there was no appeal.
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