She explained that they had come from a song recital in the great hall up-stairs. It was given at this unusual time of the year by a well-known singer who was passing through New York on her way to Australia. With this interruption she continued the criticism she had been making when I sat down, and which dealt with certain phrases in a song—Goethe's "Ueber allen Gipfeln."
"The Schubert setting?" I asked, after informing Miss Averill as to how I should have my tea.
"No, the Hugo Wolff."
I began to hum in an undertone: "'Ueber allen Gipfeln ist Ruh; in allem Wipfeln hörest du kaum einen Hauch.' Is that the one?"
The ladies exchanged glances; Averill kept his eyes on my face.
"Yes, that's the one," Mrs. Averill said, as if nothing unusual had happened. "So you sing."
"No; I—I just know the song. I've—I've heard a good deal of music at one time and another."
"Abroad?"
"Yes—abroad—and here."
"Where especially here?"