Mrs. Walford viewed these ponderous antics beamingly.
"There's grace!" her expression cried. "There's dramatic gesture for you!"
Again Humphrey's gaze sought the sour spinster's, and—yes, her own was eloquent.
He sipped his tea abstractedly. So this was the gifted being of whom he had heard so much—this dreadful creature who bulged out of his frock coat, and minced, and posed, and was alternately frisky and pompous. What a connection to have! Was it possible that his voice was so magnificent as they all declared, or would that be a disappointment too? In any case, his self-complacence made a stranger ill.
It was about two hours after dinner that the young man was begged to oblige the company, and Humphrey, who was now truly eager to hear him, feared for a long while that the persuasions would not succeed, for the coming bass objected in turn to Wagner, and Verdi, and all the songs in his repertoire. He shrugged his shoulders pityingly at this one, had forgotten another, and was "not equal" this evening to a third. At last, however, Cynthia rose, and insisted that he should give them "Infelice." Ernani was "intolerable," but, since they would not let him alone He crossed languidly to her side.
A hush of suspense settled upon the long drawing-room. Sam Walford fixed Kent with a stare, as if he meant to watch the admiration begin to bubble in him. Louisa, the hilarious and untruthful, appeared to be experiencing some divine emotion even before the first note, Miss Wix closed her eyes, with her mouth to one side. Then the young man languished at the gasalier, and roared.
It was a prodigious roar. No one could dispute that he possessed a voice of phenomenal power, if it were once conceded to be a voice, in the musical sense, at all. It seemed as if he must burst his corsets, and shift the furniture—that the ceiling itself must split with the noise that he hurled up. Perspiration broke out on him, and rolled down his face, as he writhed at the gas-globes. His large body was contorted with exertion. But he never faltered. Bellow upon bellow he produced, to the welcome end—till Cynthia struck the final chord and he bowed.
"A performance?" asked Walford, swollen with pride.
Kent said indeed it was.
The compliments were effusive. It was discussed whether he was, or was not, "in voice" to-night. He explained that to "lose himself" when he sang he needed Pincocca at the piano. He sank into his chair again, and mopped his wet curl.