now, as you know I want you to always be toward me.”
Bud squirmed in his chair at his chance to show the sincerity that he knew was required of him.
“Tell you the truth, Miss Ileen,” he said, earnestly, “you ain’t got much more voice than a weasel—just a little squeak, you know. Of course, we all like to hear you sing, for it’s kind of sweet and soothin’ after all, and you look most as mighty well sittin’ on the piano-stool as you do faced around. But as for real singin’—I reckon you couldn’t call it that.”
I looked closely at Ileen to see if Bud had overdone his frankness, but her pleased smile and sweetly spoken thanks assured me that we were on the right track.
“And what do you think, Mr. Jacks?” she asked next.
“Take it from me,” said Jacks, “you ain’t in the prima donna class. I’ve heard ’em warble in every city in the United States; and I tell you your vocal output don’t go. Otherwise, you’ve got the grand opera bunch sent to the soap factory—in looks, I mean; for the high screechers generally look like Mary Ann on her Thursday out. But nix for the gargle
