“I will assume anything you please, my dearest child,” said Agnes. “You may trust to me to keep your secret; I will not refer to it, even to yourself. But what about the unhappy Signor Rodani? Is he to return to Italy without seeing you?”
“Oh, I will see him at any time,” cried Clare, making a gesture of indifference which she had acquired in Italy. “I do not mind in the least seeing him face to face. What have I to fear from him? There never was any one so foolish as he is.”
“I hope he will find his way to the bell-pull,” said Agnes; “although I frankly admit that there is much more romance in approaching the object of one's adoration by a serenade than by a bell-pull, still—I suppose he would be shocked if I were to ask him to dine with us.”
“Why should you ask him to dine with us?” said Clare.
“Well, when a distinguished stranger comes to our neighbourhood”—
“He would only fancy if he were asked to dinner that I had not made up my mind. He would think that I was merely coquetting with him—that I was anxious to have him still hanging about; and that might spoil his career in addition to its being very unpleasant to myself. No, let him come: I will put him out of pain at once. I am sure that is the most merciful course to pursue in regard to sentimental lovers who are gifted with supersensitive tenor organs. If poor Ciro does not suffer from his escapade to-night he may be tempted to come again upon a rainy night—and where would he be then?”
“I am sure that you take the most merciful view of the case,” said Agnes. “Alas! that one should be compelled to talk of the dismissal of a lover as one talks about the lethal chamber!”
“Oh, my dear Agnes,” cried Clare, “if you had ever been one of a class of vocalists in Italy you would not talk about a little incident such as this is, as an equivalent to the lethal chamber. I wonder if there are any other employments that have such an effect upon the—the—well, let us say the nerves, as the art of singing. My experience is that a singing class is a forcing house of the affections. I only found out after I had been with the maestro for two years, that it was his fun to throw all of us together so that our wits might be sharpened—that was how he put it. What he meant was that we all sang best when we were in love with one another. Heaven! the scenes that I have witnessed! A tenore robusto used to sharpen his knife on the stone steps so as to be ready to cut the heart out of the basso profundo, who was unfortunate enough to fancy himself in love with the mezzo-soprano.”
“What an interesting experience! But what a shocking old man your master must have been!” laughed Agnes.
“Oh, he cared about nothing but to advance us in our knowledge of the art of expressing the emotions by singing. How could we know how to interpret a passion which we had never felt, he used to ask.”