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Updated: June 24, 2025
In his quieter moods the Boy would sit in the dim lamplight on a footstool beside the Tenor's chair, leaning his head against the arm of it, while the latter smoked, and the tap, tap, tap, of the clematis and honeysuckle on the window pane kept time to the thoughts of each. Long intervals of silence were natural to the Tenor, and it was generally the Boy who broke the charm.
We have always been inseparable, and I get on with her capitally; and she's not so easy to get on with, I can tell you," he added, as if taking credit to himself. "When she is good she is very good indeed, But when she is naughty she is horrid. "And just now she's mostly naughty. She isn't very happy." The interest expressed in the Tenor's attitude was intensified, and inquiry came into his eyes.
Singers are ill at ease in it, for the timbre and regularity of the voice resent such treatment. The tenor's part is so written that he is to be congratulated on getting through it without any accident, and nothing more can be expected of him. What a pity it was that Berlioz did not fall in love with an Italian singer instead of an English tragedienne! Cupid might have wrought a miracle.
"Verily, she hath eyes at least, I've been told so; but I am no judge of such things myself." The puzzled look passed from the Tenor's face. "I know what it is," he said. "You are exactly like her." The Boy laughed. "I meant to keep it a secret.
"You should never forget that your sister is an innocent girl," he said, "and it is degrading to her even to have her name associated with such ideas." But the Boy only grinned. "Bless you," he retorted, "don't make so much ado about nothing. She's quite as wise as we are." The Tenor's eyes flashed. "I call that disloyal," he said.
The melomaniac was anxious to learn the real cause of the tenor's fiasco. Genovese, the question being put to him, talked fast, like all men who can intoxicate themselves by the ebullition of ideas suggested to them by a passion. "Yes, signori, I love her, I worship her with a frenzy of which I never believed myself capable, now that I am tired of women. Women play the mischief with art.
He did not believe the Boy meant half the disrespect with which he mentioned her, but it galled him, nevertheless; and, on one occasion, when the Boy had repeated some scandalous gossip to which the Tenor objected, and afterward excused himself by saying that it was not his but his sister's story, the Tenor's indignation overflowed, and he lectured him severely.
There was a little pause and then the Tenor observed: "I should hardly have thought you were twins, except for the likeness. Your sister looks older than you do." "Well, you see, she's so much more depraved," said the Boy. "And her lovely name is Angelica excuse me. I must laugh." He slipped his hand from the Tenor's arm, leant his back against a railing, and exploded.
At these intimacies none but Frank Bret was surprised, and the laugh that made Kate blush was occasioned by the tenor's stupid questioning look: it was the first time he had seen her; he had not yet heard the story of the elopement, and his glance went from one to the other, vainly demanding an explanation, and to increase the hilarity Dick said: 'But, by the way, Bret, what made you so late this morning?
The Tenor said no more on the subject and did not mean to, but the Boy returned to it himself eventually, and it was evident that the wish to do something for somebody was taking possession of him seriously. This was the Tenor's tactful way with him; and from such slight indications of awakening thought he continued to augur well for the Boy.
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