"Is that your idea? A good excuse for being lazy! If you don't sing
scales then you must work hard at songs."
"Yes, I know." She put her hands behind her back and leant against the
piano. "There was a man in Paris, a friend of the manager. He heard
me sing once. He knew I wanted to take up a profession, and he offered
to train me for nothing, and bring me out on the stage. I was to sing
those queer, dramatic, half-monotone songs in which one almost _speaks_
the words. He meant to write them specially for me, and I was to wear
an oriental costume. He said that every other voice would sound _fade_
after mine."
Emile glanced at her sharply, but her tone and manner was both
absolutely void of conceit. "Well, why didn't you accept his offer?"
"I don't know. I suppose because it was fated I should come here. He
wanted me to make my _debut_ at the _cafes chantants_, but I didn't
like the idea somehow. He said my voice was only fit for the stage,
and would sound horrible in a room."
Emile twisted his moustache upwards, and his eyebrows climbed in the
same direction.
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