She began to sing,
her mind occupied with quite other matters than Delilah's passion of
vengeance, and her face expressive of nothing more stirring than a
gentle reminiscence. Baroni stopped abruptly and placed a big mirror
in front of her.
"Please to look at your face, Mees Quentin," he said scathingly. "It
is as wooden as your singing."
He was a confirmed advocate of the importance of facial expression in a
singer, and Diana's vague, abstracted look was rapidly raising his ire.
Recalled by the biting scorn in his tones, she made a gallant effort to
throw herself more effectually into the song, but the memory of
Errington's grave, intent face, as he had sat listening to her that
night, kept coming betwixt her and the meaning of the music--and the
result was even more unpromising than before.
In another moment Baroni was on his feet, literally dancing with rage.
"But do you then call yourself an _artiste_?" he broke out furiously.
"Why has the good God given you eyes and a mouth? That they may
express nothing--nothing at all? Bah! You haf the face of a
gootta-per-r-rcha doll!"
And snatching up the music from the piano in an uncontrollable burst of
fury, he flung it straight at her, and the two of them stood glaring at
each other for a few moments in silence. Then Baroni pointed to the
song, lying open on the floor between them, and said explosively:--
"Pick that up.
Pages:
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114