politan Opéra House, and I admitted as much to Clara.
But would this be true today? I pondered.
Certainly, advanced Clara. America doesn't want French singers. They never know how to sing.
But you are studying in Paris.
The girl began to look discomfited.
With an Italian teacher, she asseverated.
It delighted me to be able to add, I think Sanderson studied with Sbriglia and Madame Marchesi.
Your face is getting very hard, cried Martha in despair.
I think he is very rude, exclaimed the outraged and contumacious Miss Barnes, with a kind of leering acidity. He doesn't seem to know the difference between tradition and impertinent improvisation. He doesn't see that singing at the Opéra or the Opéra-Comique with a lot of rotten French singers would ruin anybody who didn't have training enough to stand out against this influence, singing utterly unmusical parts like Mélisande, too, parlando reles calculated to ruin any voice. Maeterlinck won't even go to hear the opera, it's so rotten. I wonder how much Mr. Van Vechten knows about music anyway?
Very little, I remarked mildly.
O! wailed Martha, you're not entertaining Carl at all and I can't paint when you squabble. Carl's very nice. Why can't you be agreeable, Clara? What is the matter?
Miss Barnes disdained to reply. She drew her-
