At the first verse that cross-grained spinster, with real likes and
dislikes, put a bony hand quietly before her eyes. At the last, she made
three strides, as a soldier marches, and fell all of a piece, like a
wooden _mannequin,_ on the singer's neck. "Take my piano," she sobbed,
"for you have taken the heart out of my body."
Ina returned her embrace, and did not conceal her pleasure. "I am very
proud of such a conquest," said she.
From that hour Ina was the landlady's pet. The room and piano were made
over to her, and, being in a great fright at what she had undertaken, she
studied and practiced her part night and day. She made Ashmead call a
rehearsal next day, and she came home from it wretched and almost
hysterical.
She summoned her slave Ashmead; he stood before her with an air of
hypocritical submission.
"The Flute was not at rehearsal, sir," said she, severely, "nor the Oboe,
nor the Violoncello."
"Just like 'em," said Ashmead, tranquilly.
"The tenor is a quavering stick. He is one of those who think that an
unmanly trembling of the voice represents every manly passion."
"Their name is legion."
"The soprano is insipid.
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