“Brava! bravissima! Why, Rosa, figlia mia, who would have thought it?”
“Oh, father, look at her, she acts so beautifully,” cried Violante, clasping her hands; while Rosa, in her turn confused, paused, colouring deeply.
“Ay, ay! go on, girls; let me see.”
“Courage, courage,” whispered Rosa, and, in the desire to show off her sister, Violante coquetted with praiseworthy archness.
“She can do it now, father, can’t she?”
“Ay, that is better; but you—oh, if the Saints had given you a voice! Again, Rosina mia, here—stand aside, child—play her part, Rosa. I am Don Giovanni.”
Signor Mattei was no contemptible actor, and through the chief parts of half-a-dozen operas he conducted Rosa, praising, encouraging, clapping his hands, as he found how she responded to his hints; while Rosa seemed unwearied. At last he exclaimed:
“It is excellent, most excellent! a real talent, and a face and figure that would make up well. She would be more effective than the child, after all. Now, Violante, you see what it is to have sense.”
“Oh, it is splendid!” said Violante, warmly. “If her voice was better—”
“Ah, yes, if such a gift was not wasted on her sister. But this is talent, and my heart is warmed—it is on fire with delight! Brava, Rosina!” and Signor Mattei extended his arms and clasped Rosa in them, after a fashion not unsuitable to their recent performances. Violante, as he turned away, sprang to her sister’s side.