Pamela’s heart beat furiously as she heard the applause, and she curtsied herself off the platform in a whirl of delight. She felt that it was in her to be a great public singer—a second Patti—if—if she could be taught and trained by Castellani. Her head was full of vague ideas—a life devoted to music—three years’ hard study in Italy—a début at La Scala—a world-wide renown achieved in a single night. She even wondered how to Italianise her name. Ransomini? No, that would hardly do. Pamelani—Pameletta? What awkward names they were—christian and surname both!
And then, crimsoning at the mere thought, she saw in large letters, “Madame Castellani.”
How much easier to make a great name in the operatic world with a husband to fight one’s battles and get the better of managers!
“With an income of one’s own it ought to be easy to make one’s way,” thought Pamela, as she stood behind the long table in the dining-room, dispensing tea and coffee, with the assistance of maids and footmen.
Her head was so full of these bewildering visions that she was a little less on the alert than she ought to have been for shillings and half-crowns, whereby a few elderly ladies got their tea and coffee for nothing, not being asked for payment, and preferring to consider the entertainment gratis.
Mildred’s part of the concert was performed to perfection—not a false note in an accompaniment, or a fault in the tempo. Lady Millborough, a very exacting personage, declared she had never been so well supported in her cheval de bataille, the finale to La Cenerentola. But many among the audience remarked that they had never seen Mrs. Greswold look so ill; and both Rollinson and Castellani were seriously concerned about her.
“You are as white as marble,” said the Italian. “I know you are suffering.”
“I assure you it is nothing. I have not been feeling very well lately, and I had a sleepless night. There is nothing that need give any one the slightest concern. You may be sure I shall not break down. I am very much interested in the painted window,” she added, with a faint smile.
“It is not that I fear,” said Castellani, in a lower voice. “It is of you and your suffering I am thinking.”
George Greswold did not appear at the concert: he was engaged elsewhere.