This time she drew herself up and sang with careful attention. The full, rich tones of her voice flooded the room, and Hope thrilled with delight at the sound of her own creation. Never—no, never—had she imagined that it could be so charming; and the last verse was the prettiest of all. Surely if Miss Caldecott liked the beginning, she would be enraptured with the end!
But, alas! at the conclusion of the second verse Miss Caldecott crossed the room and threw herself on the sofa, with a resounding yawn.
“Thanks awfully, dear. How clever of you! It really is sweet. Doesn’t quite suit my voice, though, does it? And I don’t like those accidentals. They are tricky, and I’m such a careless creature. Where did you pick up the words? I don’t know the author, but you can tell him from me that he can’t write songs. Not at all catchy words. He’ll have to do better than that. Don’t sit perched up there any more, dear; you look so uncomfortable. There’ll be some other people coming presently, and we’ll have tea. I bought some lovely cakes from Buzzard’s. Always make a bit of a splash on my at-home afternoons, you know, for it’s the only entertaining I do. I’m in digs here, and very bad they are, too. But what can one do? They don’t send for me at the Albert Hall, dear. It’s a shame, for I could do ever so much better than some of those old, worn-out things who only trade on a name. My voice is fresh, and a jolly good one, too, though I say it myself. Where are you living, dear? In this neighbourhood?”
Philippa replied. Hope was too disappointed, too cast down, to be able to speak. Miss Caldecott had seemed so pleased; the song had sounded so charming from her lips. At one minute acceptance had seemed certain; at the next the subject was waved aside, and apparently dismissed from consideration. She pressed her lips together and stared at the mantelpiece, with its bank of chrysanthemums in cream-jars, its photographs of becurled beauties. Philippa was talking about the flat, and removal expenses generally, and Miss Caldecott was lavishing floods of sympathy upon her, and abuse upon those who had disappointed or thwarted her plans.
“Wretched, good-for-nothing things, the pack of them! But you are so near Maple’s. Why don’t you go to Maple and let him do the whole thing? Expense! Bills! Oh, bother bills! You can let them run, you know. I do! If I want a thing I get it, and think about the bill afterwards. Do you like this tea-gown? I bought it at the autumn sales. Such a bargain! I have to spend a fortune in clothes. What would you advise me to get for this winter, for really swell affairs, you know? I go to a good many private receptions. I got some patterns this morning. I look so huge in white! What would you think of yellow—eh? Blue is so ordinary.”
“Really, I—really, I don’t know.” Philippa thought it was better to laugh outright than in a covert manner, so she laughed as she spoke, and Miss Caldecott joined in the strain with the greatest good-humour.
“I’m sure you have good taste, dear; you look so stylish. I never wear black myself; it makes me doleful. I do get doleful sometimes, though you wouldn’t think it. I live all alone, and sometimes business gets so slack. I get plenty of suburban work, but I don’t come to the front somehow. Can’t think why. My voice is far better than that Marah Bryce’s, whom they all rave about nowadays. Have you heard her lately?”
Philippa felt relieved to be able to reply in the negative, and Miss Caldecott enlarged at great length on the personal deformities, mental blemishes, and vocal limitations of her rival, even condescending to imitate her rendering of a favourite song.
“High-flown rubbish, I call it! Something like that song of yours,” she said blandly, turning to Hope. “You might offer it to her. Far more her style than mine. Don’t you say I sent you, though.”
“Thank you,” said Hope softly. “I think I should hardly like to venture. I don’t know her at all, so it’s quite different. You knew our name at least, and I thought—I hoped—”