Emile's collection of songs covered a wide field and ranged from the gypsy ballad of "The Lost Horse," to "The Bridge," in the performance of which he revelled.
Arithelli sat in a corner and rocked with inward laughter over his atrocious English, and evident enjoyment of the morbid sentiments. For in spite of her face Arithelli had a fine sense of the ridiculous.
"You don't say the words properly," she said. "You make such mouthfuls out of them!"
"And what of you?" Emile retorted in great wrath. "You with your
French all soft, soft like oil!"
"Yes, that's the Irish half of me."
"And your Italian so raûque so hard—!"
"That's the Jewish half of me. Oh, don't let's quarrel! I do want to learn to sing properly."
"Then don't fold your arms," her instructor said sharply. "I suppose you think it looks dramatic, but how can you learn to sing what you call 'properly,' with your chest all crushed up like that?"
CHAPTER VI
"When I look back on the days long fled,
The memory grows still dreamier.
Oh! what fantastic lives they led,
Far away in Bohemia.