Part 30 (1/2)

When she finished, she turned a little on the revolving stool and looked at me, her head a little inclined to one side, her lips smiling at me, for she could not but know how splendidly she had sung.

”Well, Dave,” she asked, ”are you pleased?”

”My dear Frances,” I answered, ”a king of Bavaria had operas performed for himself alone, and, likewise, I have had a treat that might have enraptured thousands. I am a monarch basking in luxury. No, after all I am the same old Dave who has found a treasure by the wayside and is gloating over it. That's what I'm doing. If I knew anything about music, I might, perhaps, tell you what it is that I find to admire in your singing, but I can only say I am impressed by something that leaves me wondering and gives me a keen delight I cannot put in words.”

”I'm so glad, Dave!” she exclaimed. ”I shall always sing to you as much as you like. I am thankful to be able to give you pleasure.”

Pleasure, forsooth! She can give me everything a man longs for in the world! Sweetness, beauty, melody are all in her power of bestowal! But I should be thankful for her affection and grateful for my privileges as a trusted friend. May I never by any folly forfeit them!

And so the winter came again, and the amenities of the holidays and some joyous little dinners with Frieda. I went one day to call on Richetti, and the _maestro_ threw himself upon me and clasped me in his arms.

”_Amico carissimo!_ It is a delight to see you! Everywhere I hear of you as an author _pregiatissimo_, but you go not out into the world where thousands are dying to know you! About _la signora_! What shall I say!

It was a day to be marked with a white stone when you brought her to me.

We are giving back to the world a pearl of great price. She has the voice, _amico mio_, and she has the natural method! But more than all else her voice is _simpatica_, it throbs and thrills, it enlists love and affection and the desire to listen forever. At her feet the world will kneel some day. She will be mentioned in the same breath as our greatest _prime donne_. In three weeks I give my concert. Every one will be there. I have given hints to many, made much mystery. She will come out in all her beauty, dressed in a very fine gown, the last on the programme, so that she will be a revelation. People will go away and clamor at her greatness. I am Richetti! I know what I speak of!”

In his enthusiasm he slapped me severely on the back, and I hurried home.

”Frances!” I exclaimed, breathlessly. ”Richetti is getting crazy about you. He bubbles over with enthusiasm. Moreover, Jamieson says he is a wise old guy. The _maestro_ says you must have a very fine gown to wear at the concert. Where is the gown?”

She cast her eyes down at the floor.

”I--I suppose I will manage to----”

”You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I told her, severely. ”It is a most important matter which we have inexcusably neglected. Come out with me at once and we will buy one.”

”Oh, no, Dave, I was thinking that I have a very nice white lace gown I brought from Paris when I first came over, which could----”

”You have no business to think such things. Who is that coming up the stairs? h.e.l.lo, always on hand when you are most needed, Frieda. I want you to go at once with Frances to the most expensive shop on Fifth Avenue and buy her a concert gown. Here are a hundred dollars.”

”That would buy two sleeves and maybe a few flounces,” said Frieda, quietly.

”Here's a hundred more which you can leave on deposit. I will see to the balance. Not a word, Frances. Remember that it must be a very fine gown.

Richetti says so, I didn't suggest it to him. He knows what's needed.

You can pay me back when you are making thousands. Don't argue, but go at once!”

”You're a nasty tempered old bully,” Frieda informed me, her eyes twinkling behind her spectacles.

”Good!” I exclaimed. ”You're always saying that I don't a.s.sert myself enough. Thank goodness, I'm getting cured of that.”

So, presently, they went away and I was left alone. Some letters were on my desk. One of them was from Gordon and I seized it eagerly. It read as follows:

”_Dear old boy_:

”As you suggested in your last letters I've had enquiries made at the war department. Paul Dupont of the 30th dragoons, a violinist by profession and a reservist called from New York, aged 31, was killed at the battle of the Marne. I thought I'd find out about his old people, if I could. Just heard they abandoned their place before it was destroyed and are living with a daughter near Suresnes. I sent them a bit of money, telling them it came from their daughter-in-law. Thought it might please Madame Dupont, but don't tell her. Am still driving one of those gasolene wheelbarrows. We're seeing some hard times. I sometimes feel awfully sorry at what happened. S.

was a fine girl, and I a fool. Glad to hear that 'Land o' Love'

is making a killing.