Something in my face—oh, my despairing face, mother!—touched something human in the pompous automaton. He went straight into the drawing-room and gave my message. There was a basket of Easter lilies on the hall-table.
The music stopped, and almost at once on the threshold of the drawing-room a lady appeared. She was young—hardly older than I—and beautiful, dressed in soft mauve cloth. She looked at me curiously, and then said suddenly:
"Will you come in?"
I went into the large, luxurious drawing-room. Titian's "Bella" looked down at me blandly with her reddened eyelids.
"What message was that you sent?" she asked, with her graceful head on one side.
My voice had almost left me. "I said Hugo Wolff told me to come in. I heard you singing 'Der Musikant'...."
She laughed, and said: "Are you a musician?"
I said: "No." And I thought of telling her the History of the Wolf. But I feared she might know my name, and tell the Italians in New York. And the Italo-Americano would print an article about it—and the Corriere della Sera in Milan would reprint it....
"Is there anything I can do for you?" she said.