The lady turned the page.
“‘Mon âme
Brûle—Eh! dis au volcan qu’il étouffe sa flamme,’—
“How long are they going on like this, I wonder?” she interrupted herself to durchblätter the pages.
“‘Ah! qui n’oublierait tout à cette voix celeste!’”
And more fingering of the leaves. “Four more solid pages of this sort of thing,” she announced. “Well, if the rest of the world has stood it, I suppose we must.” And she went on—
“‘Ta parole est un chant où rien d’humain ne reste—’”
And on, in a measured staccato, exactly as if she were adding up a column of figures, or telling off yards of tape.
“‘Doña Sol.
Viens, ô mon jeune amant,