"Rot! No matter what she said. You have a rare voice. It's a pity
it wasn't taken in hand sooner. But you sing by the grace of God.
Naturally. And that's something. No, Fursch won't bother with you.
Madame Ash is your woman. She will get that refractory break in your
register safely back on the rails. Take my word for it, Miss--Miss--"
he hesitated. "Esther Brandès--my friends nickname me Easter, and I
answer to that," she confessed. "Well, Miss Easter, I'm not so sure
that your self-confidence--egotism is sometimes a form of genius
you know--isn't justified. You have voice, presence, intelligence,
ambition. Good Lord! a lot of singers with half your gifts have
become famous. It all depends on you--and chance. Don't mock that
word--chance. Luck is two-thirds the battle. I'd rather be lucky
than rich." He ruefully thought of the last horse race at which the
bookmakers had picked his ribs bare. "What time shall I call for you
tomorrow?"
"Nine o'clock," she quickly responded, all flame.
"Good heavens girl. That's the middle of the night. Let us say, after
luncheon. I'll be here at 3 o'clock. I can't get in for luncheon
as I don't rise till midday. Then--ho! for the Conservatoire
Cosmopolitaine, where they teach you to sing in every language--but
your own. Madame Mayerbeer is Gallic or nothing." He made a formal bow
and took his leave. Easter stood at the pianoforte dreaming. Was it,
after all, coming, the realization of her mother's solitary ambition?
But once between the sheets Easter didn't dream. The day and its
wonderful events had exhausted her. She was awakened in broad daylight
by the maid who asked her if she would have coffee or chocolate.