"More beautiful than ever!" was Hubert's first reflection. "More beautiful than I remembered her! Is she nervous? No, I think not. Her face will take the town if her voice does not." And then he settled himself to listen. He was far more nervous than Cynthia herself or than Madame della Scala, who was keeping time to the music with her fan behind the screen.
Cynthia's beauty, of an unusually striking order, was heightened by an excitement which lent new color to her cheeks, new fire to her eyes. She was dressed in very pale yellow—white had been rejected as not so becoming to her dark skin as a more decided tint—and she wore a cluster of scarlet flowers on her left shoulder. She looked like some brilliant tropical bird or butterfly—a thing of light and color, to whom sunlight was as essential as food. Hubert felt vain of his protégée as he heard the little murmur of applause that greeted her appearance.
But the applause that followed her singing swamped every other manifestation of approval. Cynthia surpassed herself. Her voice and her method of singing were infinitely improved; the sweet high notes were sweeter than ever, and were full of an exquisite thrill of feeling which struck Hubert as something new in her musical development. There was no doubt about her success. No other singer had roused the audience to such a pitch of excitement and admiration.
Hubert glanced at Madame della Scala. She was sitting with her hands folded, a placid smile of achievement upon her lips; she had produced all the impression that she wished to make, and for once was completely satisfied. Hubert read it in her look.
Cynthia was curtseying to the audience, when, for the first time, Hubert caught her eye—or rather it was for the first time only that she allowed him to see that she observed him; as a matter of fact, she had been conscious of his presence ever since she entered the concert-room. She flashed a quick smile at him, bowed openly in his direction, and—as if by accident—touched the belt of her dress. He was quick enough to see what she meant; some flowers from his bouquet were fastened at her waist. He half rose from his seat, involuntarily, and almost as if he wanted to join her on the platform, then sat down again, vexed at his own movement, and blushing like a schoolboy. He did not know what had come to him, he told himself; for a moment he had been quite embarrassed and overwhelmed by this girl's bright glance and smile. She was certainly very handsome; and it was embarrassing—yes, it was decidedly a little embarrassing—to be recognised by her so publicly at the very moment of her first success.
"Know her?" said a voice at his shoulder—it was the voice of a critic. "Why, she's first-rate! Isn't she the girl that used to play small parts at the Frivolity? Who discovered that she had a voice?"
"Old Lalli, I believe—first-violin in the orchestra," said Hubert.
"Ah! Did he teach her, then? How did she get to della Scala? That woman's charges are enormous—as big as Lamperti's!"
"Couldn't say, I'm sure," returned Hubert, with perfect coolness.
"Well, della Scala made a big hit this time, at any rate. Old Mitcham's prowling about—from Covent Garden, do you see him? That girl will have an engagement before the day's out—mark my words! There hasn't been such a brilliant success for the last ten years."