She did not know quite how to meet this novel attack.
She drew her hand away, went on talking about the
part--the changes he had suggested in her entrance,
as she sang her best solo. He discussed this with her
until they rose to leave the theater. He looked
smilingly down on her, and said with the flattering air of
the satisfied connoisseur:
``Yes, you are charming, Mildred. I can make a
great artist and a great success out of you. We need
each other.''
``I certainly need you,'' said she gratefully. ``How
much you've done for me.''
``Only the beginning,'' replied he. ``Ah, I have
such plans for you--such plans. Crossley doesn't
realize how far you can be made to go--with the right
training. Without it--'' He shook his head laughingly.
``But you shall have it, my dear.'' And he
laid his hands lightly and caressingly upon her shoulders.
The gesture was apparently a friendly familiarity.
To resent it, even to draw away, would put her in the
attitude of the woman absurdly exercised about the
desirability and sacredness of her own charms.
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