At the end, Signor Graziano
stopped his playing to give time for an elaborate cadenza. Suddenly
Madame Petrucci gasped, a sharp, discordant sound cracked the delicate
finish of her singing. She put her handkerchief to her mouth.
"Bah!" she said, "this evening I am abominably husky."
The tears rose to Goneril's eyes. Was it so hard to grow old? This doubt
made her voice loudest of all in the chorus of mutual praise and thanks
which covered the song's abrupt finale.
And then there came a terrible ordeal. Miss Prunty, anxious to divert
the current of her friend's ideas, suggested that the girl should sing.
Signor Graziano and madame insisted; they would take no refusal.
"Sing, sing, little bird!" cried the old lady.
"But, madame, how can one--after you?"
The homage in the young girl's voice made the little Diva more
good-humouredly insistant than before, and Goneril was too well-bred to
make a fuss. She stood by the piano wondering which to choose, the
Handels that she always drawled, or the Pinsuti that she always
galloped. Suddenly she came by an inspiration.
"Madame," she pleaded, "may I sing one of Angiolino's songs?"
"Whatever you like, cara mia."
And standing by the piano, her arms hanging loose, she began a chant
such as the peasants use working under the olives. Her voice was small
and deep, with a peculiar thick sweetness that suited the song,
half-humorous, half-pathetic.
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