“And Mr. Ridsdale talked? How did she bear it?” said Mr. Ashford nervously.
“It is I who will not bear it,” said the musician. “And these are people who pretend to love music—pretend to know: it is insufferable. If she ever becomes a great singer——”
“If? I thought you had no doubt.”
“How was I to know I should be intruded upon like this? Poor girl. I think, after all, the best thing for her will be to marry my boy, John Purcell, and live a quiet life.”
“Marry—Purcell?”
“Why not? He is a very good musician; he will live to make a great deal of money: he has genius—positively genius. The best thing she could do would be to marry him. She is too sensitive. Susceptibility belongs to the artist temperament, but then it must be susceptibility within control. Her voice flutters like a flame when the wind is blowing. Sometimes it blows out altogether. And he loves her. She will do best to marry my John.”
“You cannot have so little perception, Rossinetti. How can you entertain such an idea for a moment? Purcell?”
“In what is he so inferior?” said the Signor with quiet gravity. “He is young, not like you and me. That is a great deal. He is an excellent musician, and he has a home to offer to her. I should advise it if she would take my advice. It would not harm her in her career to marry a musician, if finally she accepts her career. She has not accepted it yet,” said the Signor with a sigh.
“Then all your certainty is coming to nothing,” said Mr. Ashford, “and Ridsdale’s——”
“Ah, Ridsdale—that is what harms her. Something might be done if he were out of the way. He is an influence that is too much for me. Either she has heard of his new opera, and expects to have her place secured in it, under his patronage, or else she hopes—something else.” The Signor kept his eyes fixed upon his companion. He wanted to surprise Mr. Ashford’s opinion without giving his own.