"I'd rather not," he answered.
"Is he as bad as that?" she queried thoughtfully. "But what I don't understand is why—why, then, he can sing like a white-robed choir-boy."
Monte looked serious.
"I've heard him," he admitted. "But it was generally after he had been sipping absinthe rather heavily. His specialty is 'The Rosary.'"
"And the barcarole from the 'Contes d'Hoffmann.'"
"And little Spanish serenades," he added.
"But if he's all bad inside?"
She raised those deep, dark eyes as a child might. She had been for ten years like one in a convent.
Covington shook his head.
"I can't explain it," he said. "Perhaps, in a way, it's because of that—because of the contrast. But I 've heard him do it. I 've heard him make a room full of those girls on Montmartre stop their dancing and gulp hard. But where—"