“Hear about Viola?” she asked, as she leaned against the piano.
“No.” I stopped and looked up as she spoke.
“Paggi had a note from a German contralto—she’s pretty well known too—Madame Heilbig; and she wants a young accompanist, and Signor P. has recommended Vi. . . . Viola’s to try out with the lady next week when she goes through here, and I believe Madame Heilbig will tour the States next year. . . . Viola will love that. She’s already planning what she will wear. . . . Do you remember how she expected to accompany a slim tenor with pretty brown eyes?”
I did, and I laughed.
Leslie laughed too, but not as kindly as I had—really she didn’t—for she and Viola, in spite of being friends again, still held a scratchy feeling toward each other.
“Nothing ever turns out as I expect it to,” said Leslie, “I’m beginning to get over being surprised about anything. . . . Do you think a man would like that flower toque of mine?”
“He will unless he’s blind,” I replied, and then I told her to get out, because I had to go on with my work, but I didn’t have much time alone, for in a second Viola appeared.
“Darling,” she called from the doorway, “have you heard the news?”
I gave up then; I had to.
“Not your version of it,” I answered; and she came skipping across the room to drop on a chair near me, and babble. There is no other description of it! She was so excited that she hardly stopped for breath.