“With all highest esteem,
“Your devoted,
“‘Clara Steinmann.’”
“You don’t understand it all, I suppose?” said she, when I had finished.
“No.”
“That lady writes from Elberthal. You have heard of Elberthal on the Rhine, I presume?”
“Oh, yes! A large town. There used to be a fine picture-gallery there; but in the war between the—”
“There, thank you! I studied Guy’s geography myself in my youth. I see you know the place I mean. There is an eye hospital there, and a celebrated oculist—Mittendorf. I am going there. I don’t suppose it will be of the least use; but I am going. Drowning men catch at straws. Well, what else can you do? You don’t read badly.”
“I can sing—not very well, but I can sing.”
“You can sing,” said she, reflectively. “Just go to the piano and let me hear a specimen. I was once a judge in these matters.”
I opened the piano and sung, as well as I could, an English version of “Die Lotus-blume.”
My performance was greeted with silence, which Miss Hallam at length broke, remarking: