Now there are not many singers living who can sing the waltz song and

accompany themselves without making a terrible mess of the music; but

Margaret did it well, and much more than well, for she was not only a

singer with a beautiful voice but a true musician. There was not a

quaver or hesitation in her singing from beginning to end, nor a false

note in the accompaniment.

When she had finished, her lips closed and she went on playing the

music of the scene that follows. She had not gone on a dozen bars,

however, when a head appeared suddenly round the corner of a picture on

an easel.

'Ah, bah!' exclaimed the head, in an accent of great surprise.

Its thick dark-brown hair was all towzled and standing on end, its

brown eyes were opened very wide in astonishment, and it was showing

magnificently strong teeth, a little discoloured.

Margaret sprang to her feet with an apology for having forgotten

herself, but the head laughed and came forward, bringing with it a

large body wrapped in an enormous gown of white Turkish towelling,

evidently held together by the invisible hands within. Margaret thought

of the statue of Balzac.

'I thought it was Caravita,' said Madame Bonanni. 'We are great friends

you know. I sometimes find her waiting for me. But who in the world are

you?' 'Margaret Donne.'

'Ah, bah!' exclaimed the great singer again, the two syllables being

apparently her only means of expressing surprise.

'But I told your servant----' Margaret began.

'Why have you not made your début?' cried Madame Bonanni, interrupting

her, and shaking her disordered locks as if in protest. 'You have

millions in your throat! Why do you come here? To ask advice? To let me

hear you sing? Let the public hear you! What are you waiting for?

To-morrow you will be old! And all singers are young. How old do you

think I am? Forty-five, perhaps, because it is printed so! Not a bit of

it! A prima donna is never over thirty, never, never, never! Imagine

Juliet over thirty, or Lucia! Pah! The idea is horrible! Fortunately,

all tenors are fat. A Juliet of thirty may love a fat Romeo, but at

forty it would be disgusting, positively disgusting! I am sick at the

mere thought.' Margaret stood up, resting one hand on the corner of the piano and

smiling at the torrent of speech. Yet all the time, while Madame

Bonanni was saying things that sounded absurd enough, the young girl

was conscious that the handsome brown eyes were studying her quietly

and perhaps not unwisely.




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