“Do you think so?” said Rosa, gratified. “But, ah, I have no voice, so there is no chance for me here. I do believe I should have gone on the stage if I had stayed in England; that is, I thought so once.”
“I know now,” said Violante, “that I shall never be an actress; never.”
“Oh, but I think you can do something. Look at me.”
And Rosa, nothing loth, went through the different pieces, Violante imitating her with sufficient success, now that she was quite at her ease, to put her in better spirits, as Rosa gave abundant praise to her efforts.
“Ecco,” said Violante, “you shall be Don Giovanni, and I will be Zerlina; then I shall see if I can remember what you have told me.”
Rosa caught up an old hat of their father’s, set it sideways on her brow, twisted a scarf dexterously across her shoulders, delighted at making Violante laugh.
It was a pretty scene in the hot, shady room: Rosa in her fantastic dress, her eyes bright, her face full of ardour, acting the part with a force and fervour that seemed marvellous to Violante; and the slender, delicate, white-robed girl, with her bird-like voice, and natural grace that yet lent itself so imperfectly to the gestures and smiles she was trying to copy, so little inspired by the fictitious character and feeling that Don. Giovanni’s vehement and characteristic wooing made her hang her head and blush, forgetful of the coquettish response intended.
Rosa, who had been utterly absorbed in her part, stopped, laughing, and sympathising with the great singer who could not act with Mademoiselle Mattei, while she owned the tribute to her skill.
“Look at me, dear; you are only pretending to be shy, you know. No, not that great innocent stare—through your eyelashes, so. Must I teach my little sister to ‘make eyes,’ as the English say?”
Violante laughed, and the laugh made the next attempt more successful; and in the midst of Rosa’s animated response an unexpected voice cried: