Sometimes, after the evening performance, there
would be a gathering of the conspirators, all more or less morose,
unshaven and untidy; and while Emile played for her, Arithelli would
stand in the middle of the room, her green eyes blazing out of her pale
face, her arms folded, singing with a fervour which surprised even her
teacher, the lovely impassioned "_Reve du prisonnier_" of Rubinstein.
She was always pleased with her own performances, and not in the least
troubled with shyness. Also she was invariably eager to practise. She
shook down her skirt, went across to the piano and began to pick out
the notes.
"_S'il faut, ah, prends ma vie.
Mais rends-moi la liberte!_"
Emile was sewing on buttons. Though he did not look in the least
domesticated, he was far more dexterous at such work than the
long-fingered Arithelli. In fact it was only at his suggestion that
she ever mended anything at all.
"Do you ever by chance realise what you are singing about?" he demanded.
"Of course I do. I'm a red hot Socialist. I've read Tolstoi's books
and lots of others.
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