"Well, your Margaret is very good; better than I expected—I am speaking of the singing; of course, as acting it was superb."
"Oh, father! do tell me? So you went after all? I sent you a box and a stall, but you were in neither. In what part of the theatre were you?"
"In the upper boxes; I did not want to dress." She leaned across the table with brightening eyes. "For a dramatic soprano you sing that light music with extraordinary ease and fluency."
"Did I sing it as well as mother?"
"Oh, my dear, it was quite different. Your mother's art was in her phrasing and in the ideal appearance she presented."
"And didn't I present an ideal appearance?"
"It's like this, Evelyn. The Margaret of Gounod and his librettist is not a real person, but a sort of keepsake beauty who sings keepsake music. I assume that you don't think much of the music; brought up as you have been on the Old Masters, you couldn't. Well, the question is whether parts designed in such an intention should be played in the like intention, or if they should be made living creations of flesh and blood, worked up by the power of the actress into something as near to the Wagner ideal as possible. I admire your Margaret; it was a wonderful performance, but—"
"But what, father?"
"It made me wish to see you in Elizabeth and Brunnhilde. I was very sorry I couldn't get to London last night."
"You'd like my Elizabeth better. Margaret is the only part of the old lot that I now sing. I daresay you're right. I'll limit myself for the future to the Wagner repertoire."