“I know it’s a beast; it always smokes in a bad wind. Any news? I haven’t looked at the paper.”
“The opera will open on May 1,” said he. “The young English tenor—— Ha, ha!”
“Oh, Hughie, don’t laugh with a scornful wonder! It’s much worse for me.”
Hugh felt a little cheered as Edith arranged his teapot and toast-rack, and put the marmalade within reach.
“Yes, but your voice won’t crack like fiddle-strings,” he said, “and your knees won’t tremble so that the swan’s head falls off. ‘Das süsz Lied verhält!’ And the large couch in the most extraordinary bedroom where a large procession of German nobles have conducted me will fall into small fragments. Oh, why did you and Peggy conspire?”
Edith sat down and poured out a cup of tea for him.
“Now, speak truth, Hugh,” she said. “Supposing you got a telegram now this instant to say that there was to be no opera in town this year, and that for compensation the syndicate placed twenty-five million pounds to your credit, wouldn’t you be disappointed? Wouldn’t you feel extremely flat?”
Hugh considered this a moment, until his mouth was free for speech again.
“Yes, I should,” he said.
“Well, then?”