"So! Do you think then that your life at the
Hippodrome is going to be more what you English call respectable, than
the _cafes chantants_?"
"There are the horses here. If I don't like anything else I can always
like them."
Emile decided that the man in Paris had been apt in his judgment of
this fantastic voice. Clever of him also to have noticed that she was
Oriental. The setting of her green eyes was of the East. And horses
were the only things she cared about--so far. Like most people whose
lives are a complicated tangle of plots, Emile was not particularly
interested in animals. His life, thoughts and environment were morbid,
and the dumb creation too normal and healthy to appeal greatly to him.
He discovered that his pupil was able to play in much the same
inconsistent fashion that she sang. With a beautiful touch, full of
temperament and expression, she possessed a profound ignorance of the
rudiments of music. She could not read the notes, she said, but she
could copy anything he played if she heard it two or three times.
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