little more nervous,—"it would be better for me to be a singer—to study singing also."
Klesmer put down his hat on the piano, and folded his arms as if to concentrate himself.
"I know," Gwendolen resumed, turning from pale to pink and back again—" I know that my method of singing is very defective; but I have been ill taught. I could be better taught; I could study. And you will understand my wish:—to sing and act too, like Grisi, is a much higher position. Naturally, I should wish to take as high a rank as I can. And I can rely on your judgment. I am sure you will tell me the truth."
Gwendolen somehow had the conviction that now she made this serious appeal the truth would be favourable.
Still Klesmer did not speak. He drew off his gloves quickly, tossed them into his hat, rested his hands on his hips, and walked to the other end of the room. He was filled with compassion for this girl: he wanted to put a guard on his speech. When he turned again, he looked at her with a mild frown of inquiry, and said with gentle though quick utterance, "You have never seen anything, I think, of artists and their lives?—I mean of musicians, actors, artists of that kind?"
"Oh no," said Gwendolen, not perturbed by
