“She’s a Californian and rather good-looking. But I don’t think she’s had much success.”
A deprecating look came into her face and she tilted her head to one side. I felt coming revelations about Miss Harris’ rent and said hastily:
“What does she sing, concert, opera, musical comedy?”
“She’s hardly sung in public at all yet. She’s studying, and I’m afraid that it’s very uncertain. Last month—”
I interrupted desperately.
“Is she a contralto or soprano?”
“Dramatic mezzo,” said Mrs. Bushey. “She’s trying to get an opening, but,” she compressed her lips and shook her head gloomily, “there are so many of them and her voice is nothing wonderful. But she evidently has some money, for she pays her rent regularly.”
I felt immensely relieved. As Mrs. Bushey rose to her feet I too rose lightly, encouragingly smiling. Mrs. Bushey did not exhibit the cheer fitting to the possession of so satisfactory a lodger. She buttoned her jacket, murmuring:
“I don’t like taking singers, people complain so. But when one is working for one’s living—” Her fingers struggled with a button.
“Of course,” I filled in, “I understand. And I for one won’t object to the music.”