“He didn't remain in England. He was in Paris when I last heard of him. He must have learned from Signor Marini that I was here. The maestro is the only one who knows my address. Oh, how silly he has been!”
Agnes threw herself back in her chair and laughed. But Clare did not laugh—at first. On the contrary, she flushed and frowned, standing in the middle of the room. At last she laughed in unison with Agnes, as the latter said:
“What a pretty little romance I have come upon all at once! Ah, my dear, I wondered how it was possible for you to remain in Italy so long without making victims of some of that susceptible nation. Poor Signor Rodani! But it was only natural. You studied together the most alluring of the arts—he a tenor, you a soprano. That is how the operas are cast, is it not? The tenor is invariably paired off with the soprano. But alas, he is not always such a marvel of fidelity as your friend outside. By the way, I hope he is not still in the garden. He will not form any exaggerated idea of English hospitality if we allow him to remain outside on so cold a night; but still, it is very late—too late for a couple of lone women to entertain a visitor, especially when that visitor is an operatic tenor.”
“Oh, he has gone away, you may be sure,” said Clare. “Besides, he should know that houses in this country have knockers and bells. Why shouldn't he behave like a civilised person though he is a tenor?”
“I'm afraid that you've become sadly prosaic since you arrived in England,” said Agnes. “Where is the romance in behaving like ordinary people? Knockers and bells are for prosaic people; the serenade and the guitar are for operatic tenors. I shouldn't wonder if your friend did a little in the guitar line also.”
“He does a great deal in it,” laughed the girl. “Thank goodness he spared us the guitar.”
“The thought of a young man going out in cold blood to serenade a young woman on a November night is too terrible. I only hope he does not travel with one of those wonderful silk rope ladders which play so important a part in the lyric stage.”
“Goodness only knows,” said Clare, shaking her head despondently. “When there's a romantic man at large nobody can tell what may happen.”
“Is it possible that you do not respond with the least feeling of tenderness to such devotion?” said Agnes. “Is it possible that you have the courage to run counter to the best established traditions in this affair? Think of your duty as a soprano.”
“I thought that I had given him a sufficient answer long ago,” said Clare, frowning. “He has fancied himself in love with a score of the girls who sang duets with him. Girls, did I say? Why, I heard that he was continually at the feet of Madame Scherzo before he saw me, and the Scherzo has sons older than he is, and besides—well, she isn't any longer what you'd call slim.”