"Ah! You are her sister? Hn? And you sit there listening to us?"
He had forgotten her existence.
"And you are not of the stupids, no! You say I haf a beautiful voice? Hn? It is ze art, mademoiselle, zat you hear now. Sixty-five, I am zat age! And I still fight for ze stomach wit my beautiful voice. But you are of ze few, is it not? I vil sing to you, mademoiselle, just once. Your sister goes. Ten minutes, mademoiselle--only ten minutes. Zen a rest. And every day to me for two weeks! Hn? Is it not so?"
Then he cast up his arms in despair.
"Helas! It is my accompaniste. He is not!"
Jean the direct stepped in.
"Oh, Mabel will play," she said.
Herr Slavska took one of his deepest breaths.
"I say I shall sing to you--I Herr Slavska. Ant you say 'Mabel will play.' Hn? Mabel? Who is dis grand Mademoiselle Mabel?"
The humour of it suddenly appeared to come upper-most, and Herr Slavska became wickedly, cunningly suave.