"Will you sing before your tea, or after it?"

"I'm ready to sing this instant,--during it, or before it."

"Very well."

The room was now in dusk, save for the bulbs which made the portrait shine
forth like a wayside shrine. Roddy, the possible sophomore, helped a maid
find places for the cups and saucers; and the three girls, still formed in
a careful group about the sofa, silently waited.

"Of course you realize that this is not such a very large room," said Mrs.
Phillips.

"Meaning....?"

"Well, your speaking voice _is_ resonant, you know."

"Meaning, then, that I am not to raise the roof nor jar the china. I'll try
not to."

Nor did he. He sang with care rather than with volume, with discretion
rather than with abandon. The "simple accompaniments" went off with but a
slight hitch or two, yet the "resonant voice" was somehow, somewhere lost.
Possibly Cope gave too great heed to his hostess' caution; but it seemed as
if a voice essentially promising had slipped through some teacher's none
too competent hands, or--what was quite as serious--as if some
temperamental brake were operating to prevent the complete expression of
the singer's nature. Lassen, Grieg, Rubinstein--all these were carried
through rather cautiously, perhaps a little mechanically; and there was a