Outside the door he waited, listening intently and in sheer delight, wishing, indeed, that he had been within; but it was unthinkable to intrude the strident impertinence of an electric bell on that feast of harmony.
The voice ceased. There followed a beautiful little ascending passage on the violin, which he strained his ears to hear, a final grand chord on the piano. Then silence. He touched the bell at last, and instantly the door was opened by Giulia, who beamed a welcome to him and whispered:
“They make music once more. Go in, signor.”
Thus informally, and unannounced, he entered the big room. Cacciola, seated at the piano, had swung round and was talking with eager animation to Boris and Maddelena, the girl still holding her violin.
As Austin entered she laid down the instrument and ran towards him, giving him both her hands in greeting.
“You! Oh, I am glad! But why did you not come before, so that you could have heard Boris sing? The very first time for so very many weeks—and superbly!”
“I did hear quite a lot from outside—the violin too, Miss Maddelena,” he said, smiling down at her. “You’re right, superb is the only word.”
He exchanged greetings with the maestro and Melikoff, who, flushed, smiling, excited, looked an altogether different being from the stricken, morose creature Austin had known hitherto.
“All is coming right, as I told you it would,” said Cacciola delightedly. “The voice is fine as ever. You heard? It is but a matter of time now and our Boris will be known as the world’s greatest tenor, and you, signor, will be able to boast that you are one of the few who has had the privilege of hearing him in private, for he will sing again presently. But come, you have not yet seen an old friend of yours, who happily is also here: my dear young pupil, Miss Winston.”