“No, no,” said Ashmead, “all you want is a discriminating audience; and this is one. Remember they have all seen Patti in Marguerite. Is it likely they would applaud this tin stick?”
Ina turned the conversation with feminine quickness. “Mr. Ashmead, have you kept your promise; my name is not in the programme?”
“It is not; and a great mistake too.”
“I have not been announced by name in any way?”
“No. But, of course, I have nursed you a bit.”
“Nursed me? What is that? Oh, what have you been doing? No charlatanerie, I hope.”
“Nothing of the kind,” said Ashmead, stoutly; “only the regular business.”
“And pray what is the regular business?” inquired Ina, distrustfully.
“Why, of course, I sent on the manager to say that Mademoiselle Schwaub had been taken seriously ill; that we had been fearing we must break faith with the public for the first time; but that a cantatrice, who had left the stage, appreciating our difficulty, had, with rare kindness, come to our aid for this one night: we felt sure a Humbug audience—what am I saying?—a Homburg audience would appreciate this, and make due allowance for a performance undertaken in such a spirit, and with imperfect rehearsals, etc.—in short, the usual patter; and the usual effect, great applause. Indeed, the only applause that I have heard in this theater to-night. Ashmead ahead of Gounod, so far.”
Ina Klosking put both hands before her face, and uttered a little moan. She had really a soul above these artifices. “So, then,” said she, “if they do receive me, it will be out of charity.”