His "the," quite English when he remained polished and firm, degenerated into a "ze" at times such as these.
"You haf not ze breath, none," said he, as though Jean had committed an outrage.
Jean, however, had begun to glow with the ardour of future accomplishment.
"That's what I came to learn," she said promptly.
"Aha, she has charac*tere*."
Herr Slavska was delighted, but Jean found this constant dissection of herself trying.
Then the real work began. Herr Slavska breathed, made Jean breathe, hammered at her, expostulated, showed his own ribs rising and falling while his voice remained even, tender, beautiful.
Mabel sat clasping her hands over one another.
"Oh, Herr Slavska, what a beautiful voice you have," she burst out at last.
He looked at her with the greatest surprise.