It wasn’t a heartening process to stand there facing the gum-chewing pianist, and the manager’s cigar glowing redly five rows back, and the silent emptinesses beyond,—­much like singing into the mouth of a gloomy cave.  It was more or less a critical moment for Stella.  But she was keenly aware that she had to make good in a small way before she could grasp the greater opportunity, so she did her best, and her best was no mediocre performance.  She had never sung in a place designed to show off—­or to show up—­a singer’s quality.  She was even a bit astonished herself.

She elected to sing the Ave Maria first.  Her voice went pealing to the domed ceiling as sweet as a silver bell, resonant as a trumpet.  When the last note died away, there was a momentary silence.  Then the accompanist looked up at her, frankly admiring.

“You’re some warbler,” he said emphatically, “believe me.”

Behind him the manager’s cigar lost its glow.  He remained silent.  The pianist struck up “Let’s Murder Care,” a rollicking trifle from a Broadway hit.  Last of all he thumped, more or less successfully, through the accompaniment to an aria that had in it vocal gymnastics as well as melody.

“Come up to the office, Mrs. Fyfe,” Howard said, with a singular change from his first manner.

“I can give you an indefinite engagement at thirty a week,” he made a blunt offer.  “You can sing.  You’re worth more, but right now I can’t pay more.  If you pull business,—­and I rather think you will,—­have to sing twice in the afternoon and twice in the evening.”

Stella considered briefly.  Thirty dollars a week meant a great deal more than mere living, as she meant to live.  And it was a start, a move in the right direction.  She accepted; they discussed certain details.  She did not care to court publicity under her legal name, so they agreed that she should be billed as Madame Benton,—­the Madame being Howard’s suggestion,—­and she took her leave.

Upon the Monday following Stella stood for the first time in a fierce white glare that dazzled her and so shut off partially her vision of the rows and rows of faces.  She went on with a horrible slackness in her knees, a dry feeling in her throat; and she was not sure whether she would sing or fly.  When she had finished her first song and bowed herself into the wings, she felt her heart leap and hammer at the hand-clapping that grew and grew till it was like the beat of ocean surf.

Howard came running to meet her.

“You’ve sure got ’em going,” he laughed.  “Fine work.  Go out and give ’em some more.”

In time she grew accustomed to these things, to the applause she never failed to get, to the white beam that beat down from the picture cage, to the eager, upturned faces in the first rows.  Her confidence grew; ambition began to glow like a flame within her.  She had gone through the primary stages of voice culture, and she was following now a method of practice which produced results.  She could see and feel that herself.  Sometimes the fear that her voice might go as it had once gone would make her tremble.  But that, her teacher assured her, was a remote chance.