“Good-by, Americans,” she corrected, “it’s just—just—”
“Sing it,” suggested Polly.
Without ado, Thurley began “Auld Lang Syne,” causing waving handkerchiefs to be pressed to eyes and every one aboard to ask who the tall girl was with the glorious voice and if she was to sing at ship’s concert?
Ernestine shrugged her shoulders as the song ended and Thurley, abashed at the furore, sank down in her steamer chair. Harsh tug whistles took up the burden of noise.
“You’ll learn not to waste your songs,” was all Ernestine said.
CHAPTER XX
Thurley’s début was the night of November sixteenth, nor was it Marguerite as she fondly hoped but as Rosina in “The Barber of Seville,” the rôle which she had so often sung during her lessons with Hobart and in which she felt scant interest.
Returning with breathless memories of the beloved Old World as skilfully shown her by her famous couriers, Thurley had waited with equal breathlessness to find Bliss Hobart who had not sent her so much as a penny post card during her weeks abroad.