And your art should be
your friend--you don't need any other."
Diana laughed.
"You talk like old Baroni himself! But indeed I do want friends--I
haven't nearly reached the stage when art can take the place of nice
human people."
Miss Lermontof regarded her dispassionately.
"That's only because you're young--horribly young and warm-hearted."
"You talk as if you yourself were a near relation of
Methuselah!"--laughing.
"I'm thirty-five," returned Olga, "And that's old enough to know that
nine-tenths of your 'nice human people' are self-seeking vampires
living on the generosity of the other tenth. Besides, you have only to
wait till you come out professionally and you can have as many
so-called friends as you choose. You'll scarcely need to lift your
little finger and they'll come flocking round you. I don't think"--
looking at her speculatively--"that you've any conception what your
voice is going to do for you. You see, it isn't just an ordinary good
voice--it's one of the exceptional voices that are only vouchsafed once
or twice in a century."
"Still, I think I should like to have a few friends--now. _My_ friend,
I mean--not just the friends of my voice!"--with a smile.
"Well, don't include Miss de Gervais in the number--or Max Errington
either."
She watched Diana's sudden flush, and shrugging her shoulders, added
sardonically:--
"I suppose, however, it's useless to try and stop a marble rolling down
hill.
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