I wonder whether I could be of any use to you--awfully glad if I could.' Alma was abashed, stammered her vague projects, and reddened under the man's observant eye.
'Look here,' he cried, with his charming informality, 'didn't you use to sing?
Somebody told me you had a pretty good voice.' 'Oh, that was long ago.' 'I wish you'd let me hear you.' 'No, no! I don't sing at all.' 'Pity, if it's true.

I want to write a serio-comic opera, a new sort of thing, and it struck me you were just cut out for that kind of singing.
You have the face and the--you know--the refinement; sort of thing not easy to find.

It's a poor chance, I'm afraid, coming out as a violinist.' Half inclined to resent his impertinence, yet subdued by the practical tone and air of superior knowledge, Alma kept a grave face.

Dymes, crossing his legs, went on with talk of projects he had in view, all intended to be lucrative.

He had capital; nothing great, just a comfortable sum which he was bent on using to the best advantage.