THE SONG OF THE LARK
as he sat chatting and swinging his foot rhythmically. He was easily familiar, and frankly so. Wherever people met young Ottenburg, in his office, on shipboard, in a foreign hotel or railway compartment, they always felt (and usually liked) that artless presumption which seemed to say, "In this case we may waive formalities. We really have n't time. This is to-day, but it will soon be to-morrow, and then we may be very different people, and in some other country." He had a way of floating people out of dull or awkward situations, out of their own torpor or constraint or discouragement. It was a marked personal talent, of almost incalculable value in the representative of a great business founded on social amenities. Thea had liked him yesterday for the way in which he had picked her up out of herself and her German grammar for a few exciting moments.
"By the way, will you tell me your first name, please? Thea? Oh, then you are a Swede, sure enough! I thought so. Let me call you Miss Thea, after the German fashion. You won't mind? Of course not!" He usually made his assumption of a special understanding seem a tribute to the other person and not to himself.
"How long have you been with Bowers here? Do you like the old grouch? So do I. I 've come to tell him about a new soprano I heard at Bayreuth. He 'll pretend not to care, but he does. Do you warble with him? Have you anything of a voice? Honest? You look it, you know. What are you going in for, something big? Opera?"
Thea blushed crimson. "Oh, I 'm not going in for any thing. I 'm trying to learn to sing at funerals."
Ottenburg leaned forward. His eyes twinkled. "I 'll engage you to sing at mine. You can't fool me, Miss Thea. May I hear you take your lesson this afternoon?"
"No, you may not. I took it this morning."
He picked up a roll of music that lay behind him on the table. "Is this yours? Let me see what you are doing."
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