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'Ti salute, Rosignuolo, Nel tuo duolo, il saluto! Sei l'amante delta rosa Che morendo si fa sposa!" Her rich voice rippled out on the air, rivaling the songs of the nightingales themselves. She broke off with a little laugh "Poor Fabio! there was always a false note somewhere when he sung. Come, Guido!"
"There ought to be feathers here instead of hair, for no nightingale, nestled in the olive groves of Italy, ever warbled more easily and naturally. Don't go out to the world as Miss Owen, make it call you Rosignuolo. Take the next page in the instruction-book for a new lesson, and practise the old scales over before you touch the new, they are like steps in a ladder, and save jumps and jars.
Moved with quick pity I called again: "Nina!" She laughed again the same terrible laugh. "Si, si! Son' bella, son' bellissima!" she murmured. "E tu, Guido mio? Tu m'ami?" Then raising one hand as though commanding attention she cried: "Ascolta!" and began to sing clearly though feebly: "Ti saluto, Rosignuolo! Nel tuo duolo ti saluto! Sei l'amante della rosa Che morendo si fa sposa!"
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