After the singer was gone, Bowers walked up to Thea and asked languidly, “Why do you hate Jessie so? Her little variations from pitch are between her and her public; they don’t hurt you. Has she ever done anything to you except be very agreeable?”
“Yes, she has done things to me,” Thea retorted hotly.
Bowers looked interested. “What, for example?”
“I can’t explain, but I’ve got it in for her.”
Bowers laughed. “No doubt about that. I’ll have to suggest that you conceal it a little more effectually. That is—necessary, Miss Kronborg,” he added, looking back over the shoulder of the overcoat he was putting on.
He went out to lunch and Thea thought the subject closed. But late in the afternoon, when he was taking his dyspepsia tablet and a glass of water between lessons, he looked up and said in a voice ironically coaxing:—
“Miss Kronborg, I wish you would tell me why you hate Jessie.”
Taken by surprise Thea put down the score she was reading and answered before she knew what she was saying, “I hate her for the sake of what I used to think a singer might be.”
Bowers balanced the tablet on the end of his long forefinger and whistled softly. “And how did you form your conception of what a singer ought to be?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” Thea flushed and spoke under her breath; “but I suppose I got most of it from Harsanyi.”