He sat at the piano and faced her, swinging idly back and forth, his hands loosely clasped. His lips were parted in a smile of quaint amusement.
“It will never do to try to sing with such a red nose,” he suggested.
She laughed, in spite of her plight, and struck out at him playfully in the air, then turned her back and spent an intensive moment before the tiny mirror of her vanity case.
Curry reached round to the keyboard with one bejewelled hand and struck a chord. “First your running scale—you know—with one over the octave.”
She started in bravely, though, just as she had expected, in no time he had stopped her, and was assuring her she was working too hard. “Didn’t I tell you you were all tied up?” Then he struck another chord. “Give me some soft work, please—some nice, quiet, smooth ‘ti-roos.’ No, no! Piano—piano! Wait a minute. You’re not on your breath.” He shook his head critically. “No, you’re not on your breath at all. Just relax—don’t be afraid—just feel restful. Let your shoulders down—there!”
“Relaxing won’t get the tin whistle out of my throat!” she lamented doggedly.
“We’ll see,” he soothed. “Try again—‘ti-roo.’” He listened carefully, his head on one side. “Put it more forward—right on your lips. Ti-roo-oo-oo. Let the breath carry it. Now once more.”
Half an hour passed, and still she was too “open.” The impresario, perspiring a little from concentrated exertion, scratched his head carefully, so as not to displace the shining toupee. Then, suddenly inspired, he jumped up from the piano stool.
“Look here,” he cried, “I want to see what your ribs are doing. Don’t you dare let them fall on the attack—if you do you’re lost! When you sing for those smug fellows in Cape Town I want you to think of your ribs every minute—you understand? Don’t think about who’s listening to you—think about your ribs!”