Paul expressed his readiness; he rose; Eline sat down at the piano. Every Thursday they practised duos together, and she already prided herself on her répertoire. Paul had never had a lesson, and hardly knew how to play; but Eline gave him a hint now and then, which he followed faithfully, and she asserted that whatever he might be able to do with his voice, he owed to her. He opened his mouth properly and kept his tongue down, but really he ought to take some lessons of Roberts. A fellow couldn’t be expected to sing without some study.
“What shall we have? Une Nuit à Venise?”
“Right you are, Une Nuit à Venise.”
She opened a music portfolio, bound in red leather, with “Eline Vere” in golden letters on the cover.
“But don’t bring out your high sol so loud here,” said she. “Take it in your medium register, and not from the chest. It will sound much sweeter. And begin very softly, swelling here and there; and keep in good time with me towards the end—the refrain, you know. Now, nicely, Paul.”
She played the prelude to Lucantoni’s duet, whilst Paul gave a little cough to clear his voice, and both commenced together, very softly—
“Ah viens la nuit est belle!
Viens, le ciel est d’azur!”
His light tenor sounded a little shaky, but still it went very well with the resonant ring of her pure soprano. It was a pleasure to her to sing together like that, when Paul was in voice, and would listen to advice. It seemed to her as though she sang with more feeling when another voice accompanied hers, and that she felt more, especially in the repetition of such a phrase as—
“Laisse moi dans tes yeux,