She was very good-natured with him, and did as he bade her. He took his stand just by her, behind Struboff, and gazed into her face. I could see him; his lips twitched, and his eyes were set on her in an ardour of passion.
"Look in my eyes and sing!" he commanded.
"Ah, you're silly," she murmured in her pleasant lazy drawl. She threw out her chest, and filled the room with healthy tuneful sound.
"Stop!" he cried. "Stop! I can endure no more of it. Can you eat? Yes, you can eat. In God's name, come and eat, dear Coralie."
Coralie appealed to me.
"Don't you think I sing it very well?" she asked. "I can fill the Grand Opera House quite easily."
"You sing it to perfection," said I. "There's nothing wrong, nothing at all. Wetter here is mad."
"Wetter is certainly mad," echoed Varvilliers, rising from the sofa.
"Wetter is damned mad," said Wetter.
"Wetter is right—ah, so right," came in a despairing grumble from poor Struboff, who still played away.