“F’r instance,” he proceeded, with renewed courage, mistaking the general hush of surprise for a gratifying interest, “there’s a lady I know here in Granite who has a canary bird that sings all about the death of Ase. Sings it fine, too.”
Letty giggled.
“So you are a Grieg fiend, like so many other Granite people just now, Mr. Conover?” said she.
“Me?” Caleb exclaimed, in genuine astonishment, “No, indeed, ma’am. I leave dope of all sorts alone.”
There was a laugh. Caleb did not quite see the point, but felt dimly that he had scored a hit. Caine came to his rescue.
“What a pity the bird couldn’t have been pressed into service for the musicale,” he observed. “It would be a real comfort to hear the ‘Death of Ase’ in new form.”
“Oh, he don’t sing all of it,” amended Caleb. “He just sings the first part. I forget quite how it goes. But he does it fine. Only, to my mind,” with an air of profound criticism, “he sings it kind of sprightly for such a sad piece. Still, I s’pose that’s a matter of taste.”
Conover felt he was getting on finely. A most flattering attention—far different from the slight aloofness of the evening’s earlier moments—greeted his every word. Caine, however, seemed actually jealous of his friend’s popularity; for he cut in now with a complete change of subject.
“I wonder,” he conjectured, addressing no one in particular, “why tenors invariably are born without intelligence. When Providence gives a man a great tenor voice, He gives him nothing else. Perhaps, though, he needs nothing else.”
But an avalanche of trite sayings could not have halted Caleb. He listened with ponderous deference to Caine; then glanced about the table and cleared his voice.