work. Your epiglottis ain’t a real side-stepper—its footwork ain’t good.”
With a merry laugh at Jacks’ criticism, Ileen looked inquiringly at me.
I admit that I faltered a little. Was there not such a thing as being too frank? Perhaps I even hedged a little in my verdict; but I stayed with the critics.
“I am not skilled in scientific music, Miss Ileen,” I said, “but, frankly, I cannot praise very highly the singing-voice that Nature has given you. It has long been a favorite comparison that a great singer sings like a bird. Well, there are birds and birds. I would say that your voice reminds me of the thrush’s—throaty and not strong, nor of much compass or variety—but still—er—sweet—in—er—its—way, and—er—”
“Thank you, Mr. Harris,” interrupted Miss Hinkle. “I knew I could depend upon your frankness and honesty.”
And then C. Vincent Vesey drew back one sleeve from his snowy cuff, and the water came down at Lodore.
My memory cannot do justice to his masterly tribute to that priceless, God-given treasure—Miss Hinkle’s voice. He raved over it in terms
