softly begins again:

"'I think of what thou art to me,
I think of what thou canst not be'"--

As the man gives signs of animation, such as yawning, and moving in his
chair, the girl breaks off gently and looks to see if he is annoyed by
the song. He opens his eyes, and says, in a slow, complaining voice:

"Yes, you can sing, there's no doubt of that. And such
expression!--unconscious expression, too. What a pity--what a
shame--that your gift should be utterly wasted!"

"It isn't wasted if my singing pleases you, father," says the girl,
patiently.

"I don't want to keep the pleasure all to myself," replies the man,
peevishly. "I'm not selfish enough for that. We have no right to hide
our light under a bushel. The world has a claim on our talents. And the
world pays for them, too. Think of the money--think of how we might live!
Ah, Florence, what a disappointment you've been to me!"

She listens as one who has many times heard the same plaint; and answers
as one who has as often made the same answer:

"I have tried, but my voice is not strong enough for the concert stage,
and the choirs are all full."

"You know well enough where your chance is. With your looks, in comic
opera--"