“Going to Europe! Isn’t that very sudden? But it will be splendid! When are you going?”
“Soon—in a day or two—as soon as I can get my things packed in my trunks.”
He looked at her curiously. Her manner, which was usually calm and deliberate, was marked by tremulous restlessness. She spoke rapidly and like one laboring under suppressed excitement.
“Come,” she said, going to the piano stool and pushing it nearer the keyboard, “I’ll be very busy now and I don’t want to waste any time.”
He moved reluctantly to the piano and seated himself.
“Have you your music?” he asked.
“No, but I can sing what some of your pupils do. I can sing ‘Knowest thou the land?’ and Mrs. Burrell sings that. Where is it?”
Her feverish haste and nervousness impressed him more than ever as her hands tossed aside the sheets of piled-up music, throwing them about the piano and snatching at them as they slipped to the floor. From there he picked up the ‘Mignon’ aria which she had overlooked and spreading it on the rack struck the opening notes. She leaned over him to see the first line and he felt that she was trembling violently. He raised his hands and wheeled round on the stool.
“Miss Moreau,” he said, “I truly don’t think you’re well enough to sing. Don’t you think we’d better put it off till to-morrow?”
“No, no—I’m going to now. I’m ready. I’m anxious to. I must. Begin again, please.”