"Do you know 'Aïda'?" he inquired at last.
She nodded.
"Do you remember the duet in the tomb?"
"Yes."
His fingers wandered into it, then his glorious voice, sweet as the lower tones of a harp, rang out full and rich. She joined him when her time came, singing as she had never sung before, enthused by the genius which she had never expected, enchanted by the magic of his touch.
When it was finished he turned to her.
"Who taught you?" he asked, quietly.
"My mother."
"Your method is faulty. I wish you would go to Arditi for a while. Your voice is excellent, but you waste it deplorably. You have a warmth of coloring and a breadth of expression rarely found, and would make a superb singer if properly taught. Will you go to Arditi? Please do."
"Perhaps. I have never heard good singers, that is, none except my mother, and she was not great. You have studied, of course?"