Calls of my name descending from the top floor in Miss Harris’ voice, took me out to my door.
“I am going over some of my things,” the voice cried. “Come up and listen.” Then, as I ascended, “It’s the scene between Brunhilda and Siegmund in Die Walkuere, the piéce de résistance of the evening.”
I didn’t find Miss Gorringe as I expected, but Mr. Masters, sitting on the piano stool and looking glum. He rose, nodded to me, and sinking back on the stool, laid his hands on the keys and broke into a desultory playing. With all my ignorance I have heard enough to know that he played uncommonly well.
The future Signorita Bonaventura was looking her best, a slight color in her cheeks, confidence shining in her eyes.
“We’ve been trying it over. Did you hear?”
The weather had been warm, the register closed, so I had only heard faintly.
“Well, it’s going to be something great,” said the prima donna.
“Is it?” said Mr. Masters with his back to us.
The sneering quality was strong in his tone and I began to wish I hadn’t come.
“Go across the room, Mrs. Drake,” he said curtly. “Sit where you can see her.”