“Yes; he spoke of Paris as the best place to send her. He knows some famous teacher there that he says is the proper person for her to study with. He seemed to think that two years of study would be sufficient for her. She’d be ready to make her appearance in grand opera after that time.”
“Good heavens!” breathed Mrs. Willers in a transport of pious triumph, “just think of it! And now up in that cottage on Pine Street getting fifty cents a lesson, and with only four pupils.”
“In two years,” said Shackleton, who was speaking more to himself than to her, “she’ll be twenty-seven years old—just in her prime.”
“She’ll be twenty-six,” corrected Mrs. Willers; “she’s only twenty-four now.”
He raised his brows with a little air of amused apology.
“Twenty-four, is it?” he said. “Well, that’s all the better. Twenty-six is one year better than twenty-seven.”
“It’ll be like the ‘Innocents Abroad’ to see her and her mother in Paris,” said Mrs. Willers. “They’re just two of the most unsophisticated females that ever strayed out of the golden age.”
The man vouchsafed no answer to this remark for a moment; then he said:
“The mother’s health is very delicate? She’s quite an invalid, you say?”
“Quite. But she’s one of the sweetest, most uncomplaining women you ever laid eyes on. You’d understand the daughter better if you knew the mother. She’s so gentle and girlish. And then they’ve lived round in such a sort of quiet, secluded way. It’s funny to me because they had plenty of money when Mr. Moreau was alive. But they never seemed to go into society, or know many people; they just seemed enough for each other, especially when the father was with them. They simply adored him, and he must have been a fine man. They—”