It was a fine place for singing--Warner described the acoustics of the valley as perfect--and the ridges and gorges gave back the greatest series of echoes any of them had ever heard.
"If this place didn't have a name already," said Pennington, "I'd call it Echo Cove, and the echoes are flattering, too.

Whenever George sings his voice always comes back in highly improved tones, something that we can stand very well." "My voice may not be as mellow as Mario's," said Warner calmly, "but my technique is perfect.

Music is chiefly an affair of mathematics, as everybody knows, or at least it is eighty per cent, the rest being voice, a mere gift of birth.

So, as I am unassailable in mathematics, I'm a much better singer than the common and vulgar lot who merely have voice." "That being the case," said Pennington, "you should sing for yourself only and admire your own wonderful technique." "I never sing unless I'm asked to do so," said Warner, with his old invincible calm, "and then the competent few who have made an exhaustive study of this most complex science appreciate my achievement.

As I said, I should consider it a mark of cheapness if I pleased the low, vulgar and common herd." "With that iron face and satisfied mind of yours you ought to go far, George," said Pennington.
"Everything is arranged already.