It was done; the echoes of the following notes of the violin fainted and died among the carven angels of the roof. It was done, and Morris sighed aloud.
“How can I thank you?” he said. “I knew that you were a musician, but not that you had such genius. To listen to you makes a man feel very humble.”
She laughed. “The voice is a mere gift, for which no one deserves credit, although, of course, it can be improved.”
“If so, what of the accompaniment?”
“That is different; that comes from the heart and hard work. Do you know that when I was under my old master out in Denmark, who in his time was one of the finest of violinists in the north of Europe, I often played for five and sang for two hours a day? Also, I have never let the thing drop; it has been the consolation and amusement of a somewhat lonely life. So, by this time, I ought to understand my art, although there remains much to be learnt.”
“Understand it! Why, you could make a fortune on the stage.”
“A living, perhaps, if my voice will bear the continual strain. I daresay that some time I shall drift there—for the living—not because I like the trade or have any wish for popular success. It is a fact that I had far rather sing alone to you here to-night, and know that you are pleased, than be cheered by a whole opera house full of strange people.”
“And I—oh, I cannot explain! Sing on, sing all you can, for to-morrow I must go away.”
“Go away!” she faltered.
“Yes; I will explain to you afterwards. But please sing while I am here to listen.”