“It is the premier pas qui coûte,” said he, keeping a friendly but determined gaze upon my undecided face.
“I want to accustom you to appearing in public,” he added. “By degrees, you know. There is nothing unusual in Germany for one in your position to sing in such a concert.”
“I was not thinking of that; but that it is impossible that I can sing well enough—”
“You sing well enough for my purpose. You will be amazed to find what an impetus to your studies, and what a filip to your industry will be given by once singing before a number of other people. And then, on the stage—”
“But I am not going on the stage.”
“I think you are. At least, if you do otherwise you will do wrong. You have gifts which are in themselves a responsibility.”
“I—gifts—what gifts?” I asked, incredulously. “I am as stupid as a donkey. My sisters always said so, and sisters are sure to know; you may trust them for that.”
“Then you will take the soprano solos?”
“Do you think I can?”
“I don’t think you can; I say you must. I will call upon Miss Hallam this afternoon. And the gage—fee—what you call it?—is fifty thalers.”