find something at once. How long have you? When will your mother be back?"
She replied, still somewhat resentfully: "In a week, at most."
"That will give us plenty of time. There's your singing, now; you should be able to do something with that." (He had remembered Pittsey's criticism of Miss Morris: "She ought to be singing in a church choir.") "You could get something in some of the churches—or in some of the big concerts—in the choruses at least. And you could get singing pupils—or piano pupils—more easily here than at home, I should think. I'll ask Miss Morris about it. She should know."
"Yes, but I can't sing. I found that out in Germany. And my playing is—is elementary. None of the big men would even teach me, over there. They said, 'Come back in three years and we'll see!'"
"Well, even so." He was determinedly undiscouraged, "This isn't Germany. You could go on studying at the same time." He talked, with his eyes fixed before him, conscious that he was trying to deceive her, as well as himself; but he felt that he was compelled to play the part—compelled by her expectation of aid from him—and he felt, too, that all this matter of earning a livelihood was a thing of no importance so he had her with him.
She asked him what he had been doing, and he told her. He accepted meekly her criticism of his failure to get anything but his ridiculous stage work. "I have my mornings free to look for something better," he explained, "and I'm using my experience at the 'Classic' to do some play-writing."
