THE first of September they went up to town. Stanley left at once for
his annual shooting trip; Donald Keith disappeared, saying--as was his
habit--neither what he was about nor when he would be seen again. Mrs.
Brindley summoned her pupils and her musical friends. Mildred resumed
the lessons with Jennings. There was no doubt about it, she had
astonishingly improved during the summer. There had come--or, rather,
had come back--into her voice the birdlike quality, free, joyous,
spontaneous, that had not been there since her father's death and the
family's downfall. She was glad that her arrangement with Donald Keith
was of such a nature that she was really not bound to go on with it--if
he should ever come back and remind her of what she had said. Now that
Jennings was enthusiastic--giving just and deserved praise, as her own
ear and Mrs. Brindley assured her, she was angry at herself for having
tolerated Keith's frankness, his insolence, his insulting and
contemptuous denials of her ability. She was impatient to see him,
that she might put him down. She said to Jennings:
"You think I can make a career?"
"There isn't a doubt in my mind now," replied he. "You ought to be one
of the few great lyric sopranos within five years."
"A man, this summer--a really unusual man in some ways--told me there
was no hope for me."
"A singing teacher?"
"No, a lawyer. A Mr. Keith--Donald Keith."
"I've heard of him," said Jennings. "His mother was Rivi, the famous
coloratura of twenty years ago."