He was greatly upset. “It is impossible!” he declared. “Absolutely impossible! Why haven't we known of this before? Why did not Herbert know of it? Mr. Knowles, I must say that—that you have been most unthinking in this matter.”
“I have been thinking of her,” I answered, curtly. “It was and is her secret and we rely upon you to keep it as such. We trust to your honor to tell no one, not even your son.”
“My son! Herbert? Why I must tell him! I must tell my wife.”
“You may tell your wife. And your son as much as you think necessary. Further than that it must not go.”
“Of course, of course. I understand. But an opera singer!”
“She isn't a real opera singer,” said Hephzy. “That is, not one of those great ones. And she told me once that she realized now that she never could be. She has a real sweet voice, a beautiful voice, but it isn't powerful enough to make her a place in the big companies. She tried and tried, she said, but all the managers said the same thing.”
“Hephzy,” I said, “when did she tell you this? I didn't know of it.”
“I know you didn't, Hosy. She told me one day when we were alone. It was the only time she ever spoke of herself and she didn't say much then. She spoke about her livin' with her relatives here in England and what awful, mean, hard people they were. She didn't say who they were nor where they lived, but she did say she ran away from them to go on the stage as a singer and what trials and troubles she went through afterward. She told me that much and then she seemed sorry that she had. She made me promise not to tell anyone, not even you. I haven't, until now.”
Doctor Bayliss was sitting with a hand to his forehead.
“A provincial opera singer,” he repeated. “Oh, impossible! Quite impossible!”