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It was too broad at the back, and too large altogether for his slight frame, though probably the thickness of his fluffy light hair, which stood up all over it, innocent of parting as the Tenor's own, added considerably to this last defect.
The mere possession of that knife wrought the great tenor's soul to gory tragedy; so much so that immediately after the third act curtain calls he rushed directly to the spot where he knew the contemptible Signor Biffo de Bates-s-s-s to be standing, and with shrill Latin imprecations flourished that keen, glistening blade before the eyes of the very much astounded Biff.
The aria enveloped them and for a moment Cassy trilled in. "Perhaps to-morrow you will sing for me," he continued. "Yes, I'll sing." Later, in the black room on the white bed, the fat tenor's tuneful prayer floated just above her. Cassy repeated the words and told herself she was silly. She may have been, but also she was tired. She knew it and for a moment wondered why.
"My hair!" she exclaimed, recollecting. "What am I to do with my hair? I suppose my wig is lost." Then she burst out passionately: "Oh, why did you save my life!" and wrung her hands "or why aren't you different now you know? Can't you say something to restore my self-respect? Won't you forgive me?" The Tenor's face contracted as with a spasm of pain.
When anyone addressed her, thought was suspended by the effort to answer, after which the rush returned, but the current had usually set in a new direction, as was now the case. Her uncle, as seen in the mirror, gave place, when she had spoken, to the Tenor's long low room as she had seen it that afternoon; "The light shone in and showed the shabby places.
It would have taken a very practised eye to detect anxiety under the mask of bored and elegant indifference he had assumed. He apologised for being late, but had been button-holed by a fellow in the foyer who wanted to talk polo. Very disappointing evening altogether. The prima donna had sung flat and an understudy was on for Tenor's part.
A painful spasm contracted the Tenor's face, "Oh, Boy," he said, in a deep stern voice that made the latter quail for once; "have you no sense of honour at all? You must give that back to me immediately." The Boy returned it without a word, and the Tenor went upstairs. His step was listless, and when he came back he looked pale and disheartened.
"Yes," Angelica answered; "leave me alone awhile." And the woman had tact enough to obey. Then Angelica got up, and went and knelt by the Tenor's empty chair, and laid her cheek against the cold cushion. "It isn't true, it isn't true, it isn't true," she wailed again and again, but it was long before she could think at all; and her dry eyes ached, for she had no more tears to shed.
She sank down at that, and clasped his feet and burst into a paroxysm of tears, which were as a fervent Amen to the Tenor's prayer. "Come!" he said, raising her. "Come, before it is too late. You must do something with your hair." But she could not plait it, her hands trembled so, and he was obliged to help her. He got her a hat to roll it up under.
"Well, there then, don't bite," said the Boy; "and I won't tell you against your will that she thinks a great deal about you" this presto, in order to get it out before the Tenor could stop him. "But I will tell you on my own account that I don't know the woman who wouldn't." A vivid flush suffused the Tenor's face, and he turned away.
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