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Madame Schneider was one of those local teachers who would have announced “only a limited number of pupils accepted” had she advertised. She was a small, buxom creature, plain-featured, pince-nezed, and coiffured with little regard to aesthetic values. When she listened, she put her head forward. And when she spoke she put it still further forward. She was not impressive, but she had a manner which said: “Isn’t it a pity you failed! If you had only come to me first, I could have shown you so simply!” This manner did little to stimulate prospective pupils, but it convinced many a parent that Madame Schneider would stand for no nonsense and that she could turn out singers as a meat chopper could turn out Salisbury steaks.

There was an overpowering simplicity about Madame Schneider’s studio on upper Broadway. The Madame herself opened the door to a tiny reception room, which contained a few chairs, a table with copies of last year’s musical journals, and a collection of framed autographed pictures from various musical lights. Few of these photographs were inscribed specifically to Madame Schneider, but the gallery was imposing, nevertheless. The studio proper was a slightly larger room, containing a middle-aged piano, several music cabinets, two chairs, and more autographed pictures. Madame Schneider moved from one room to the other like a nurse gliding from a dentist’s waiting-room to his office.

Mrs. Loamford arrived at Madame Schneider’s studio