The Venosta ran on in praise of Paris and the Parisians; of Louvier and his soiree and the pistachio ice; of the Americans, and a certain creme de maraschino which she hoped the Signor Inglese had not failed to taste,—the creme de maraschino led her thoughts back to Italy. Then she grew mournful. How she missed the native beau ciel! Paris was pleasant, but how absurd to call it “le Paradis des Femmes,”—as if les Femmes could find Paradise in a brouillard!
“But,” she exclaimed, with vivacity of voice and gesticulation, “the Signor does not come to hear the parrot talk; he is engaged to come that he may hear the nightingale sing. A drop of honey attracts the fly more than a bottle of vinegar.”
Graham could not help smiling at this adage. “I submit,” said he, “to your comparison as regards myself; but certainly anything less like a bottle of vinegar than your amiable conversation I cannot well conceive. However, the metaphor apart, I scarcely know how I dare ask Mademoiselle to sing after the confession I made to her last night.”
“What confession?” asked the Venosta.
“That I know nothing of music and doubt if I can honestly say that I am fond of it.”
“Not fond of music! Impossible! You slander yourself. He who loves not music would have a dull time of it in heaven. But you are English, and perhaps have only heard the music of your own country. Bad, very bad—a heretic’s music! Now listen.”
Seating herself at the piano, she began an air from the “Lucia,” crying out to Isaura to come and sing to her accompaniment.
“Do you really wish it?” asked Isaura of Graham, fixing on him questioning, timid eyes.
“I cannot say how much I wish to hear you.”
Isaura moved to the instrument, and Graham stood behind her. Perhaps he felt that he should judge more impartially of her voice if not subjected to the charm of her face.