"Well, I know I could not stand up and sing parts of that oratorio, knowing how other people believe it," said Roland, "and I'm no atheist."
"No," said the other, "that's just where your scruple comes in. If you an were atheist, you wouldn't think it mattered much what you sang, so long as the music was good. As for the girls who sing the choruses, I don't think they know half the time what they're singing."
Roland thought of his father's old-fashioned veneration for the sacred words, and wondered how he would have borne what seemed to his own fastidious taste a profanation of them, even while he maintained his own negative position.
"There will be some pretty good voices in the choruses," continued Waldberg, critically. "Miss Farrell's is sweet and clear like a bell, though it is not very strong—wants compass. And another young lady I had the honor of accompanying at Miss Farrell's last soirée musi-cale—Miss Blanchard—has a very good voice too, plenty of feeling and expression, as far as she goes, and wonderfully distinct enunciation."
Roland had begun to listen with more interest. It was curious, as he had noticed before, that you no sooner met persons for the first time, than you were almost sure to hear of them very soon again.
Waldberg went on, not expecting a reply, simply talking because he liked it.
"Mr. Chillingworth hopes to get her into the choruses. He was quite set on putting her in for a solo, but she declined, and I think she's right. She could never fill a hall, but Chillingworth, entre nous, seems to admire her immensely."
"I have seen her," said Roland, carelessly. "She has a fine face, whatever her voice may be." And the Madonna-like vision rose again before him.
"Yes, she has a noble air, 'presence,' as you say, but she can't compare with Miss Farrell for looks. She is an exquisite creature, herrlich schöne she looked that evening."
"Take care of yourself, Waldberg," said Roland, looking up with a smile, at his animated face. "She is not fair for you."