Ottenburg leaned forward. His eyes twinkled. “I’ll engage you to sing at mine. You can’t fool me, Miss Thea. May I hear you take your lesson this afternoon?”
“No, you may not. I took it this morning.”
He picked up a roll of music that lay behind him on the table. “Is this yours? Let me see what you are doing.”
He snapped back the clasp and began turning over the songs. “All very fine, but tame. What’s he got you at this Mozart stuff for? I shouldn’t think it would suit your voice. Oh, I can make a pretty good guess at what will suit you! This from ‘Gioconda’ is more in your line. What’s this Grieg? It looks interesting. Tak for Ditt Råd. What does that mean?”
“‘Thanks for your Advice.’ Don’t you know it?”
“No; not at all. Let’s try it.” He rose, pushed open the door into the music-room, and motioned Thea to enter before him. She hung back.
“I couldn’t give you much of an idea of it. It’s a big song.”
Ottenburg took her gently by the elbow and pushed her into the other room. He sat down carelessly at the piano and looked over the music for a moment. “I think I can get you through it. But how stupid not to have the German words. Can you really sing the Norwegian? What an infernal language to sing. Translate the text for me.” He handed her the music.
Thea looked at it, then at him, and shook her head. “I can’t. The truth is I don’t know either English or Swedish very well, and Norwegian’s still worse,” she said confidentially. She not infrequently refused to do what she was asked to do, but it was not like her to explain her refusal, even when she had a good reason.
“I understand. We immigrants never speak any language well. But you know what it means, don’t you?”