“Yes, and heard her sing. Frightened enough she was, poor thing; but she has a voice like Sontag's, just a sort of mellow, rich tone they run upon just now, and with a compass equal to Malibran's.”
“And her look?”
“Strikingly handsome. She is very young; her mother says nigh sixteen, but I should guess her at under fifteen certainly. I thought at once of writing to you, Stocmar, when I saw her. I know how eagerly you snatch up such a chance as this; but as you were on your way out, I deferred to mention her till you came.”
“And what counsel did you give her, Trover?”
“I said, 'By all means devote her to the Opera. It is to women, in our age, what the career of politics is to men, the only royal road to high ambition.'”
“That is what I tell all my young prime donne,” said Stocmar. “I never fail to remind them that any débutante may live to be a duchess.”
“And they believe you?” asked Paten.
“To be sure they do. Why, man, there is an atmosphere of credulity about a theatre that makes one credit anything, except what is palpably true. Every manager fancies he is making a fortune; every tenor imagines he is to marry a princess; and every fiddler in the orchestra firmly believes in the time when a breathless audience will be listening to his 'solo.'”
“I wish, with all my heart, I was on the stage, then,” exclaimed Paten. “I should certainly like to imbibe some of this sanguine spirit.”
“You are too old a dram-drinker, Ludlow, to be intoxicated with such light tipple,” said Stocmar. “You have tasted of the real 'tap.'”