He paused, looked keenly at her,
a good-humored smile in those eyes of his so fascinating
to women because of their frank wavering of an inconstancy
it would indeed be a triumph to seize and hold.
Said he:
``And your bad throat? Did Ransdell give you a
germ?''
She colored. He had gone straight at the weak
point.
``If you'd been able to sing,'' he went on, ``nobody
could have done you up.''
She could not gather herself together for speech.
``Didn't you know your voice wasn't reliable when
you came to me?''
``Yes,'' she admitted.
``And wasn't that the REAL reason you had given up
grand opera?'' pursued he mercilessly.
``The reason was what I told you--lack of money,''
replied she. ``I did not go into the reason why I lacked
money. Why should I when, even on my worst days,
I could get through all my part in a musical comedy--
except songs that could be cut down or cut out? If I
could have made good at acting, would you have given
me up on account of my voice?''
``Not if you had been good enough,'' he admitted.
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