“Nit! She just disappeared, leaving no address behind, after politely informing Vandergrift that his place wasn’t respectable.”
“But didn’t she know that before she sang there?” asked the critic, in amazement.
“It seems not,” was the answer. “She was as green as grass. She thought she was to sing in some Sunday-school concert or something of that sort, I fancy.”
Clayton Graham chuckled over what he thought was a good joke, but his face looked somewhat serious, in spite of his laughter.
“I made her sit in front and see my show before I talked to her,” he added, shrewdly, “and the little Puritan told me, gravely, that she quite approved of it, and was willing to sing for me a week on trial.”
“But where in the world has she been hiding since that night at the Fern Garden? If her voice is so wonderful, I should certainly know if she had been singing.”
“Oh, she tells me that at just that time she decided to be a nurse—went up to Charity Hospital, on Blackwell’s Island, for a time, but the sights up there upset her so she had to give it up and look for something different.”
“Good Heavens! The idea of that face being hidden in a hospital ward!” cried Everett in horror. “Why, if her voice is half as beautiful as her face, I’ll give her a column and make Carlotta green with envy.”
“She’s that already,” said Graham, laughing. “You just ought to see her! Why, that woman would kill her, I believe, if she dared.”
“Strange how jealous these professionals are,” said Everett, soberly, “and particularly after they get a bit old and their voices are not quite up to the standard.”