“Take off your coat, Dorothy,” she suggested.
Dorothy placed her coat on the piano. She would have to go through with it, but it wasn’t at all what she had pictured. It was too cold, too—too commercial. Goldstein concluded his experiments with modulations, and played the introduction. Dorothy closed her eyes and sang. Fleming sat with his chin in his hands and his eyes closed. Goldstein, at the piano, also lowered his eyelids as he played. Mrs. Loamford didn’t close her eyes. One of them was on Dorothy and one on Fleming, if that were possible. She kept time with her head and indicated expression with her hands.
Fleming remained in his posture as Dorothy concluded her last “I love you.” Goldstein left the piano.
“All?” he asked.
Fleming looked up.
“Ah, yes,” he murmured. “Thank you, Mr. Goldstein. That will be all. Thank you.”
“Don’t you want to hear——” began Mrs. Loamford; but for once, Dorothy’s glances stopped her.
“Very nice," remarked Fleming, as Goldstein departed.
“Now do you really think-” Mrs. Loamford started.
“You have studied for how many years?” interrupted Fleming.
“About three years steadily,” replied Mrs. Loamford before Dorothy could answer. “But Dorothy had been singing all her life. In fact, she could sing before she could speak. Even as a little tot, she was most musical. She played toy pianos before she could walk. She had considerable instruction before she went to the conservatory. Our family-that is, mine-has always been musical. My brother-"
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