Meanwhile, the music master was again making the profoundest of bows. Then he profoundly placed a music stool before an old piano, and profoundly proposed to the young lady that she should sit down.
Perhaps not unwillingly, she sat down, and perhaps not unwillingly, she poured forth a delightful song.
Arriving at the end of it, and even the most delicious songs will come to an end, the new music master was most enthusiastic in his praises.
The doctor would qualify his praise. The voice was good—granted. But the airs—why the airs of the present day—what were they? Contemptible. Now, for instance, when the wonderful Cafariello sang, and when he sang that wonderful ‘la, la, la’ of his, why there was an air to which none could object. In fact he would sing it. It began—
“When thou art near, Rosina dear.”
To be sure the song said Giannina—but never mind.
“When thou art ne-e-e-ar, Rosina de-e-e-ar,
With joy and fe-e-e-ar, there falls a te-e-e-ar.”
This delicious romance the old doctor pointed by means of his right foot and toes. He also elaborated the accent by means, first of his right hand and arm, and then of his left hand and arm; and getting to te-e-a-r, he laid both his hands on his heart, looked sentimental, and fell into a rage; for he caught sight of Figaro behind him, mimicking him.
Meanwhile, the professor of music was diligently explaining (perhaps the ground-work of music), to the young lady, who was as diligently listening.
The barber was horrified at the doctor’s discovery, and immediately flourished about his razors.