'Voices are treacherous,' observed the cautious old woman. 'They sometimes break down. Then you will only be the daughter of Basili the notary again.'
'My voice will not break down,' answered Aliandra, confidently. 'It is a natural voice, and I never make any effort. My master says it is the voices which are incomplete at first and have to be developed to equalise them, which break down sometimes.'
'You may have an illness,' suggested the Signora Barbuzzi. 'Then you may lose your voice.'
'Why should I have an illness? I am strong.'
The handsome girl leaned back on the sofa and raising her arms clasped her hands behind her head, resting them against the wall—a splendidly vital figure.
'We are mortal,' observed the old woman, sententiously. 'When God pleases to send us a fever, goodbye voice!'
'Have I some sin on my soul that Heaven should send me a fever?' asked Aliandra, rather indignantly. 'What have I done?'
'Nothing, nothing, my daughter! Who accuses you? You are an angel, you are a crystal, you are a little saint. I have said nothing. But a fever is a fever for saints and sinners.'
'I am not going to have a fever, and I am not going to lose my voice. I shall make a great reputation and earn a great deal of money.'