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‘‘You'll not fail；'' said he。 ‘‘I know it。 It's written in your face。'' He looked at her。 She was not looking at him； but with eyes gazing straight ahead was revealing that latent； inexplicable power which； when it appeared at the surface； so strongly dominated and subordinated her beauty and her sex。 He shut his teeth together hard and glanced away。
‘‘You will not fail；'' he repeated bitterly。 ‘‘And that's the worst of it。''
Without another word； without a handshake； he went。 And she knew that； except by chance； he would never see her againor she him。
Moldini； disheveled and hysterical with delight and suspense； was in the drawing…roomhad been there half an hour。 At first she could hardly force her mind to listen； but as he talked on and on； he captured her attention and held it。
The next day she began with Moldini； and put the Lucia Rivi system into force in all its more than conventual rigors。 And for about a month she worked like a devouring flame。 Never had there been such energy； such enthusiasm。 Mrs。 Belloc was alarmed for her health； but the Rivi system took care of that； and presently Mrs。 Belloc was moved to say； ‘‘Well； I've often heard that hard work never harmed anyone； but I never believed it。 Now I know the truth。''
Then Mildred went to Hanging Rock to spend Saturday to Monday with her mother。 Presbury； reduced now by various infirmitiesby absolute deafness； by dimness of sight； by difficulty in walkingto where eating was his sole remaining pleasure； or； indeed； distraction； spent all his time in concocting dishes for him… self。 Mildred could not resistand who can when seated at table with the dish before one's eyes and under one's nose。 The Rivi regimen was suspended for the visit。 Mildred； back in New York and at work again； found that she was apparently none the worse for her holiday； was in fact better。 So she drifted into the way of suspending the regimen for an evening now and thenwhen she dined with Mrs。 Brindley； or when Agnes Belloc had something particularly good。 All went well for a time。 Thena cold。 She neglected it； feeling sure it could not stay with one so soundly healthy through and through。 But it did stay； it grew worse。 She decided that she ought to take medicine for it。 True； starvation was the cure prescribed by the regimen； but Mildred could not bring herself to two or three days of discomfort。 Also； many people told her that such a cure was foolish and even dangerous。 The cold got better； got worse； got better。 But her throat became queer； and at last her voice left her。 She was ashamed to go to Moldini in such a condition。 She dropped in upon Hicks； the throat specialist。 He ‘‘fixed her up'' beautifully with a few sprayings。 A weekand her voice left her again； and Hicks could not bring it back。 As she left his office； it was raining an icy； dreary drizzle。 She splashed her way home； in about the lowest spirits she had ever known。 She locked her door and seated herself at the window and stared out； while the storm raged within her。 After an hour or two she wrote and sent Moldini a note： ‘‘I have been making a fool of myself。 I'll not come again until I am all right。 Be patient with me。 I don't think this will occur again。'' She first wrote ‘‘happen。'' She scratched it out and put ‘‘occur'' in its place。 Not that Moldini would have noted the slip； simply that she would not permit herself the satisfaction of the false and self…excusing ‘‘happen。'' It had not been a ‘‘happen。'' It had been a deliberate folly； a lapse to the Mildred she had buried the day she sent Donald Keith away。 When the note was on its way； she threw out all her medicines； and broke the new spraying apparatus Hicks had instructed her to buy。
She went back to the Rivi regime。 A week passed； and she was little better。 Two weeks； and she began to mend。 But it was six weeks before the last traces of her folly disappeared。 Moldini said not a word； gave no sign。 Once more her life went on in uneventful； unbroken routinediet； exercise； singingsinging； exercise； dietno distractions except an occasional visit to the opera with Moldini； and she was hating opera now。 All her enthusiasm was gone。 She simply worked doggedly； drudged； slaved。
When the days began to grow warm； Mrs。 Belloc said： ‘‘I suppose you'll soon be off to the country？ Are you going to visit Mrs。 Brindley？''
‘‘No；'' said Mildred。
‘‘Then come with me。''
‘‘Thank you； but I can't do it。''
‘‘But you've got to rest somewhere。''
‘‘Rest？'' said Mildred。 ‘‘Why should I rest？''
Mrs。 Belloc started to protest； then abruptly changed。 ‘‘Come to think of it； why should you？ You're in perfect health； and it'll be time enough to rest when you ‘get there。' ''
‘‘I'm tired through and through；'' said Mildred； ‘‘but it isn't the kind of tired that could be rested except by throwing up this frightful nightmare of a career。''
‘‘And you can't do that。''
‘‘I won't；'' said Mildred； her lips compressed and her eyes narrowed。
She and Moldiniand fat； funny little Mrs。 Moldini went to the mountains。 And she worked on。 She would listen to none of the suggestions about the dangers of keeping too steadily at it； about working oneself into a state of staleness； about the imperative demands of the artistic temperament for rest； change； variety。 ‘‘It may be so；'' she said to Mrs。 Brindley。 ‘‘But I've gone mad。 I can no more drop this routine thanthan you could take it up and keep to it for a week。''
‘‘I'll admit I couldn't；'' said Cyrilla。 ‘‘And Mildred； you're making a mistake。''
‘‘Then I'll have to suffer for it。 I must do what seems best to me。''
‘‘But I'm sure you're wrong。 I never knew anyone to act as you're acting。 Everyone rests and freshens up。''
Mildred lost patience； almost lost her temper。 ‘‘You're trying to tempt me to ruin myself；'' she said。 ‘‘Please stop it。 You say you never knew anyone to do as I'm doing。 Very well。 But how many girls have you known who have succeeded？''
Cyrilla hesitatingly confessed that she had known none。
‘‘Yet you've known scores who've tried。''
‘‘But they didn't fail because they didn't work enough。 Many of them worked too much。''
Mildred laughed。 ‘‘How do you know why they failed？'' said she。 ‘‘You haven't thought about it as I have。 You haven't LIVED it。 Cyrilla； I served my apprenticeship at listening to nonsense about careers。 I want to have nothing to do with inspiration； and artistic temperament； and spontaneous genius； and all the rest of the lies。 Moldini and I know what we are about。 So I'm living as those who have succeeded lived and not as those who have failed。''
Cyrilla was silenced； but not convinced。 The amazing improvement in Mildred's health； the splendid slim strength and suppleness of her body； the new and stable glories of her voiceall these she knew about； but they did not convince her。 She believed in work； in hard work； but to her work meant the music itself。 She felt that the Rivi system and the dirty； obscure little Moldini between them were destroying Mildred by destroying all ‘‘temperament'' in her。
It was the old； old criticism of talent upon genius。 Genius has always won in its own time and generation all the world except talent。 To talent contemporaneous genius； genius seen at its patient； plodding toil； seems coarse and obvious and lacking altogether in inspiration。 Talent cannot comprehend that creation is necessarily in travail and in all manner of unloveliness。
Mildred toiled on like a slave under the lash； and Moldini and the Rivi system were her twin relentless drivers。 She learned to rule herself with an iron hand。 She discovered the full measure of her own deficiencies； and she determined to make herself a competent lyric soprano； perhaps something of a dramatic soprano。 She dismissed from her mind all the ‘‘high'' thoughts； all the dreams wherewith the little people； even the little people who achieve a certain success； beguile the tedium of their journey along the hard road。 She was not working to ‘‘interpret the thought of the great master'' or to ‘‘advance the singing art yet higher'' or
even to win fame and applause。 She had one object to earn her living on the