Almost before Stella has time to take breath, the little man has struck the chords of the prelude. In the midst of the aria he takes his hands from the keys, and shakes his head disapprovingly, so that his long hair flutters about his ears.
"Eh bien?" Morinski calls, with some irritation.
"I have heard enough," the other declares, decidedly. "Haven't you, Morinski? It is a perfectly impossible way to sing,--a perfectly impossible way!"
"Do not be discouraged, Fräulein," says Morinski, reassuringly. "Your voice is superb, full, soft,--one of the finest that I have heard for a long time."
"I do not say no, Morinski," the leader interposes, with the croak of a raven, "but she is absolutely lacking in rhythm, routine, and aplomb."
"She needs a good teacher," says Morinski.
"The teacher has nothing to do with it!" shouts the leader, and with an annihilating stare at Stella he sums up his judgment of her in the words, "C'est une femme du monde. You will never make a singer of her!" Then, with the energy that characterizes his every movement, he sets about trying to repair the injury he has just done to his silk hat by brushing it the wrong way.
Poor Stella's eyes fill with tears. Morinski takes both her hands:
"Do not be discouraged, I beg of you, my dear mademoiselle, I entreat;" and with an ardent glance at her delicate face he assures her, "Believe me, you have great qualifications for success on the stage."
"Trust to my experience,--the experience of forty years; you never will succeed on the stage!" shouts the Italian.