"Madge," said Graydon, at dinner, "I suppose you will tell me you have
practiced over and over again every note you sang this morning."
"Certainly; some of the more difficult ones hours and hours and
months and months. Herr Brachmann was an amiable dragon in music, and
insisted on your knowing what you did know."
"I thought you would say all this, but it doesn't account for your
singing."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know exactly. There is something you did not get from
Herr Brachmann--scarcely from nature. It suggests what artists call
feeling, and more."
"Oh, every one has his own method," said Madge, carelessly, and yet
with a visible increase of color.
"'Method,' do you call it? I'm half inclined to think that it might
be akin to madness were you very unhappy. The human voice often has
a strange power over me, and I have a theory that it may reveal
character more than people imagine. Why shouldn't it? It is the
chief medium of our expression, and we may even unconsciously reveal
ourselves in our tones."
"When were you so fanciful before? What does a professional reveal?"
"Chiefly that she is a trained professional, and yet even the most
blase among them give hints as to the compass of their woman-nature.
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