“Let me see your face.”
“It’s—it’s a fine voice,” I faltered, “so full and—er—rich.”
She paid no attention to my words, but sent a piercing look over my embarrassed countenance. Her own clouded and she drew back as if I had hurt her.
“You don’t like it,” she said in a low voice.
“Why do you say that—what nonsense. Haven’t I just said—”
“Oh, keep quiet,” she interrupted roughly, and giving the piano stool a jerk was twirled away from me into a profile position. She looked so gloomy that I was afraid to speak.
There was a moment’s pause, during which I felt exceedingly uncomfortable and she sat with her head bowed, staring at the floor. Then she gave a deep sigh and murmured.
“It’s so crushing—you all look the same.”
“Who?”
“Everybody who knows. And I’ve worked so hard and I’m eaten up,” she struck her breast with her clenched fist, “eaten up in here with the longing to succeed.”