When the song ceased Mr Grey wheeled abruptly on the stool and said, “Do you know that you have one of the most wonderful natural voices I have heard. Why, there is a fortune in such a voice if it were, trained! Such chest-notes, such feeling, such rarity of tone!”
“Don’t be sarcastic, Mr Grey,” I said shortly.
“Upon my word as a man, I mean every word I say,” he returned enthusiastically.
Everard Grey’s opinion on artistic matters was considered worth having. He dabbled in all the arts—writing, music, acting, and sketching, and went to every good concert and play in Sydney. Though he was clever at law, it was whispered by some that he would wind up on the stage, as he had a great leaning that way.
I walked away from the piano treading on air. Would I really make a singer? I with the voice which had often been ridiculed; I who had often blasphemously said that I would sell my soul to be able to sing just passably. Everard Grey’s opinion gave me an intoxicated sensation of joy.
“Can you recite?” he inquired.
“Yes,” I answered firmly.
“Give us something,” said uncle Jay-Jay.
I recited Longfellow’s “The Slave’s Dream”. Everard Grey was quite as enthusiastic over this as he had been about my singing.
“Such a voice! Such depth and width! Why, she could fill the Centennial Hall without an effort. All she requires is training.”