out:

"Say, quit gabbling, will you? the parties in the other room are going
to spiel." My embarrassment was so hideous that the latter course would
probably have been adopted, but Miss Edith touched me on the arm and I
followed her to the hall.

"Oh, Mr. Trybill!" she gasped; "I'm so nervous that I shall surely faint
when it comes my turn. Won't you please turn the music for me? I shall
really feel better if some one is near me."

I looked at the sweet girl. There was not a particle of coquetry in her
request. Dark shadows were under her eyes, two pink spots burnt in her
pretty cheeks and her hands shook like a cigarette-smoker's.

"But think, think of your technique, your mamma, your guests," I blurted
out desperately. She shook her head sadly and I shuddered. Are all
amateur musicales such torturing things?...

The house was packed. A strong odor of flowers, perfumes and cooking
mingled in the air; one stout woman fought her way to a window and put
her head out gasping. It was Madame Bujoli, the famous vocal teacher,
three of whose crack pupils were on the programme. Not far from her sat
Frau Makart, the great instructor in the art of German Lieder
interpretation, a hard-featured woman who sneered at Italians, Italian
methods and Italian music. Two of her pupils were to appear, and I saw
trouble ahead in the superheated atmosphere.

Crash! went the piano. "They're off!" hoarsely chuckled a sporting man
next to me, with a wilted collar, and Moszkowski's "Nations" welled up
from the vicinity of the piano, two young women exploiting their fingers
in its delivery. The talking in the back drawing-rooms went on
furiously, and I saw the hostess coming toward me. I escape her by
edging into the back hall, despite the smothered complaints of my
displaced neighbors.

I got into the doorway, or rather into the angle of a door leading into
the back room. The piano had stopped; while wondering what to do next my
attention was suddenly attracted by a conversation to which I had to
listen; it was impossible to move away. "So she is going to sing, is
she? Well, we will see if this great and only true Italian method will
put brains into a fool's head or voice into her chest." This was said in
a guttural voice, the accent being quite Teutonic. A soprano voice was
heard, and I listened as critically as I could. The voice sang the Jewel
Song from "Faust," and it seemed to me that its owner knew something
about singing. I underst