“Yes, yes; she is very young,” said the signorino.
But a little shadow had fallen across their placid entertainment: the spirit had left their memories; they seemed to have grown shapeless, dusty, as the fresh and comely faces of dead Etruscan kings crumble into mould at the touch of the pitiless sunshine.
“Signorino,” said Madame Petrucci, presently, “if you will accompany me we will perform one of your charming melodies.”
Signor Graziano rose a little stiffly and led the pretty, withered little diva to the piano.
Goneril looked on, wondering, admiring. The signorino’s thin white hands made a delicate, fluent melody, reminding her of running water under the rippled shade of trees, and, like a high, sweet bird, the thin, penetrating notes of the singer rose, swelled, and died away, admirably true and just even in this latter weakness. At the end Signor Graziano stopped his playing to give time for an elaborate cadenza. Suddenly Madame Petrucci gasped; a sharp discordant sound cracked the delicate finish of her singing. She put her handkerchief to her mouth.
“Bah!” she said, “this evening I am abominably husky.”
The tears rose to Goneril’s eyes. Was it so hard to grow old? This doubt made her voice loudest of all in the chorus of mutual praise and thanks which covered the song’s abrupt finale.
And then there came a terrible ordeal. Miss Prunty, anxious to divert the current of her friend’s ideas, had suggested that the girl should sing. Signor Graziano and madame insisted; they would take no refusal.
“Sing, sing, little bird!” cried the old lady.
“But, madame, how can one—after you?”