ed 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 grand opera stage； and to earn it as a prima donna because that meant the best living。 She frankly told Cyrilla that this was her object； when Cyrilla forced her one day to talk about her aims。 Cyrilla looked pained； broke a melancholy silence to say：
‘‘I know you don't mean that。 You are too intelligent。 You sing too well。''
‘‘Yes； I mean just that；'' said Mildred。 ‘‘A living。''
‘‘At any rate； don't say it。 You give such a false impression。''
‘‘To whom？ Not to Crossley； and not to Moldini； and why should I care what any others think？ They are not paying my expenses。 And regardless of what they think now； they'll be at my feet if I succeed； and they'll put me under theirs if I don't。''
‘‘How hard you have grown；'' cried Cyrilla。
‘‘How sensible； you mean。 I've merely stopped being a self…deceiver and a sentimentalist。''
‘‘Believe me； my dear； you are sacrificing your character to your ambition。''
‘‘I never had any real character until ambition came；'' replied Mildred。 ‘‘The soft； vacillating； sweet and weak thing I used to have wasn't character。''
‘‘But； dear； you can't think it superior character to center one's whole life about a sordid ambition。''
‘‘Sordid？''
‘‘Merely to make a living。''
Mildred laughed merrily and mockingly。 ‘‘You call that sordid？ Then for heaven's sake what is high？ You had left you money enough to live on； if you have to。 No one left me an income。 So； I'm fighting for independenceand that means for self…respect。 Is self…respect sordid； Cyrilla！''
And then Cyrilla understoodin part； not altogether。 She lived in the ordinary environment of flap… doodle and sweet hypocrisy and sentimentality； and none such can more than vaguely glimpse the realities。
Toward the end of the summer Moldini said：
‘‘It's over。 You have won。''
Mildred looked at him in puzzled surprise。
‘‘You have learned it all。 You will succeed。 The rest is detail。''
‘‘But I've learned nothing as yet；'' protested she。
‘‘You have learned to teach yourself；'' replied the Italian。 ‘‘You at last can hear yourself sing； and you know when you sing right and when you sing wrong； and you know how to sing right。 The rest is easy。 Ah； my dear Miss Gower； you will work NOW！''
Mildred did not understand。 She was even daunted by that ‘‘You will work NOW！'' She had been thinking that to work harder was impossible。 What did he expect of her？ Something she feared she could not realize。 But soon she understoodwhen he gave her songs； then began to teach her a role； the part of Madame Butterfly herself。 ‘‘I can help you only a little there；'' he said。 ‘‘You will have to go to my friend Ferreri for roles。 But we can make a beginning。''
She had indeed won。 She had passed from the stage where a career is all drudgerythe stage through which only the strong can pass without giving up and accepting failure or small success。 She had passed to the stage where there is added pleasure to the drudgery； for； the drudgery never ceases。 And what was the pleasure？ Why； more workalways workbringing into use not merely the routine parts of the mind； but also the imaginative and creative faculties。 She had learned her tradenot well enough； for no superior man or woman ever feels that he or she knows the trade well enoughbut well enough to begin to use it。
Said Moldini： ‘‘When the great one； who has achieved and arrived； is asked for advice by the sweet； enthusiastic young beginner； what is the answer？ Always the same： ‘My dear child； don't！ Go back home； and marry and have babies。' You know why now？''
And Mildred； looking back over the dreary drudgery that had been； and looking forward to the drudgery yet to come； dreary enough for all the prospects of a few flowers and a little sunMildred said： ‘‘Indeed I do； maestro。''
‘‘They think it means what you Americans call moralsas if that were all of morality！ But it doesn't mean morals； not at all。 Sex and the game of sex is all through life everywherein the home no less than in the theater。 In town and country； indoors and out； sunlight； moonlight； and rainalways it goes on。 And t