But it is so
rare--to look as one sings, to sing as one looks.''
For once, compliment, sincere compliment from one
whose opinion was worth while, gave Mildred pain. She
burst out with her news: ``Signor Moldini, I've lost
my place in the company. My voice has gone back
on me.''
Usually Moldini abounded in the consideration of fine
natures that have suffered deeply from lack of consideration.
But he was so astounded that he could only stare
stupidly at her, smoothing his long greasy hair with his
thin brown hand.
``It's all my fault; I don't take care of myself,'' she
went on. ``I don't take care of my health. At least,
I hope that's it.''
``Hope!'' he said, suddenly angry.
``Hope so, because if it isn't that, then I've no chance
for a career,'' explained she.
He looked at her feet, pointed an uncannily long
forefinger at them. ``The crossings and sidewalks are
slush--and you, a singer, without overshoes! Lunacy!
Lunacy!''
``I've never worn overshoes?'' said Mildred apologetically.
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