“You see,” said Ethel, “all I care about is being able to sing. Nobody believes that. No one understands except Ladislaw!”
“That is the young man?”
“Yes—Ladislaw Metz,” said Ethel, a little impatient at this interest in the least important part of her story. “He knows what it means to me.”
“What is he? He sings?”
“He’s a barytone. He’s going to be a wonderful singer some day.”
“But now? What is he now?”
“Well, you see, he’s poor, and he can’t afford to go on studying just now. So—I don’t like to tell you, because you’ll think he’s not really a musician—he’s on the stage.”
“Ah!” said the old lady, with perfect composure. “The theater? An operetta?”
“Well, no—it’s vaudeville. He’s been singing awful, cheap, popular songs, just to keep himself alive. Now he wants a partner for a better sort of turn—an act, you know. We should sing—”
“We?”