“Oh, she knows it all,” said Lilly, rather scandalized. “Madame Duncan told me it was her favourite study, and that she knew the geography of the whole world.”
“Then I don’t see why she wants to hear us say it,” observed Elizabeth, apparently under the impression that competitions, like gladiatorial shows, were gotten up solely for the amusement of an audience. It never occurred to her, nor indeed to any of us, to attach any educational value to the performance. We conceived that we were butchered to make a convent holiday.
“And it’s because Reverend Mother is so fond of music that we are going to have an operetta instead of a play,” went on Lilly, pleased to have information to impart.
I sighed heavily. How could anybody prefer anything to a play? I recognized an operetta as a form of diversion, and was grateful for it, as I should have been grateful for any entertainment, short of an organ recital. We were none of us surfeited with pleasures. But to me song was at best only an imperfect mode of speech; and the meaningless repetition of a phrase, which needed to be said but once, vexed my impatient spirit. We were already tolerably familiar with “The Miracle of the Roses.” For two weeks past the strains had floated from every music room. We could hear, through the closed doors, Frances Fenton, who was to be St. Elizabeth of Hungary, quavering sweetly,—
“Unpretending and lowly,
Like spirits pure and holy,
I love the wild rose best,
I love the wild rose best,
I love the wi-i-ild rose best.”
We could hear Ella Holrook announcing in her deep contralto,—