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 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 that, if they had been addressed to the morning stars when they sang together, would have made that stellar choir explode in a meteoric shower of flaming self-satisfaction.

He marshalled on his white finger-tips the grand opera stars of all the continents, from Jenny Lind to Emma Abbott, only to depreciate their endowments.  He spoke of larynxes, of chest notes, of phrasing, arpeggios, and other strange paraphernalia of the throaty art.  He admitted, as though driven to a corner, that Jenny Lind had a note or two in the high register that Miss Hinkle had not yet acquired—­but—­ “!!!”—­that was a mere matter of practice and training.

And, as a peroration, he predicted—­solemnly predicted—­a career in vocal art for the “coming star of the Southwest—­and one of which grand old Texas may well be proud,” hitherto unsurpassed in the annals of musical history.