“Well, it seemed to me Berwick got away with it.”
“Do you mean the audience liked him better?”
He nodded, a grave agreeing eye on me.
“He got them when he sang that thing about The Three Grenadiers. It made your heart swell up.”
He leaned nearer, lowering his voice. “And he got them in that German duet, too.”
He drew back and nodded again darkly, as if wishing me to catch a meaning too direful for words.
An hour later Miss Bliss blew in in a blue flannel jacket and the remnants of her marcelle wave. By contrast with her flushed and blooming appearance of the evening before, she looked pinched and pallid. She cowered over the fire, stretching her little chapped hands to the blaze and presenting a narrow humped back to my gaze.
“She didn’t seem to catch on some way or other. I don’t know why but—”
She stopped and leaned forward for the poker.
“But what?”