He entered his house, the pleasant place with the warm colors, the rows of books, the grand piano, and of course his wife.
"Sorry I had to stay late, dear, but there's something important going on. Something really important. And you can be a big help to me right now."
"Me?" asked Lynne. "You're going back to musical therapy?"
"Not exactly," he said, dryly. "More like musical detection. I'm going to play a tape recording of a song or two, and I want your professional opinion as to what part of the world the singer came from."
He walked over to the recorder and began threading the tape. "Now pay no attention to the song itself," he instructed. "I'm interested only in the voice quality."
The tape spool unrolled slowly, and Britten's voice filled the room.
"Not bad for an amateur," Lynne commented, listening closely. For several minutes she remained silent, until finally the tape was completed.
"Well," she said, finally, "I don't think it's an American. A bit too rich. It doesn't have the French quality, nor the Italian. More chesty, kind of ripe and fruity. Central European. Hungarian, Russian, or something of that order."
Wolf kissed her solemnly. "You win first prize, girl. That's the answer I wanted, and that's the answer that fits."