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group to group and shines in the smoke-screened night like an opal. . . . She is not interested, but she is acutely interesting. She has more than beauty ; there is intelligence in her level brown eyes, intelligence and candor and something flamingly clean. And it is this clean spirit of Dale Winter’s, outspoken in her free, square gaze, that attracts you more than does her lovely voice ; which night by night, if the truth be told, is becoming less lovely in the unnatural battle to make itself heard above the thunder of the souses. Herself has not hardened in this hard place; but her voice? . . . You wonder, curiously enough, if Fate figured that it was saving a voice in that grim hour when Colosimo paid his last toll to vendetta.
“No, Miss Winter,” I answered, “your five years ‘out there’ weren’t wasted. But I think six would have killed your singing.”
“So do I,” she agrees. “Nature is just nature and we can stand just so much.”
“But I want to ask you — you had in your kidhood one season with a road company in ‘Madame Sherry’ — which was the harder, the one-night stands or — ?” “Nothing,” she interrupts, “nothing can be compared to those years out there. Do you realize I was there from five in the afternoon till six in the morning ? And I never drank. My brain was always clear. And I had — I was just a girl, like any other girl — I had ideals. You know at its best what a place that was for a girl’s ideals!”
“You had no antidote?”
“Well, I had work. I got up at twelve — I can fortunately do on very little sleep — and studied. I studied piano, harmony, Italian. I learned Italian, not only to sing but to hear. It helped out my curi