“Did you sing for Harsanyi?”
“Yes. He thinks I’ve improved there, too. He said nice things to me. Oh, he was very nice! He agrees with you about my going to Lehmann, if she’ll take me. He came out to the elevator with me, after we had said good-bye. He said something nice out there, too, but he seemed sad.”
“What was it that he said?”
“He said, ‘When people, serious people, believe in you, they give you some of their best, so—take care of it, Miss Kronborg.’ Then he waved his hands and went back.”
“If you sang, I wish you had taken me along. Did you sing well?” Fred turned from her and went back to the window. “I wonder when I shall hear you sing again.” He picked up a bunch of violets and smelled them. “You know, your leaving me like this—well, it’s almost inhuman to be able to do it so kindly and unconditionally.”
“I suppose it is. It was almost inhuman to be able to leave home, too,—the last time, when I knew it was for good. But all the same, I cared a great deal more than anybody else did. I lived through it. I have no choice now. No matter how much it breaks me up, I have to go. Do I seem to enjoy it?”
Fred bent over her trunk and picked up something which proved to be a score, clumsily bound. “What’s this? Did you ever try to sing this?” He opened it and on the engraved title-page read Wunsch’s inscription, “Einst, O Wunder!” He looked up sharply at Thea.
“Wunsch gave me that when he went away. I’ve told you about him, my old teacher in Moonstone. He loved that opera.”
Fred went toward the fireplace, the book under his arm, singing softly:—
“Einst, O Wunder, entblüht auf meinem Grabe,
Eine Blume der Asche meines Herzens;”