THE SONG OF THE LARK
greed, or even love—can tear them to shreds. She is nineteen? Well, in ten years she may have quite a regal beauty, or she may have a heavy, discontented face, all dug out in channels. That will depend upon the kind of ideas she lives with."
"Or the kind of people?" Ottenburg suggested.
The old Jewess folded her arms over her massive chest, drew back her shoulders, and looked up at the young man. "With that hard glint in her eye? The people won 't matter much, I fancy. They will come and go. She is very much interested in herself—as she should be."
Ottenburg frowned. "Wait until you hear her sing. Her eyes are different then. That gleam that comes in them is curious, is n't it? As you say, it 's impersonal."
The object of this discussion came in, smiling. She had chosen neither the blue nor the yellow gown, but a pale rose-color, with silver butterflies. Mrs. Nathanmeyer lifted her lorgnette and studied her as she approached. She caught the characteristic things at once: the free, strong walk, the calm carriage of the head, the milky whiteness of the girl's arms and shoulders.
"Yes, that color is good for you," she said approvingly. "The yellow one probably killed your hair? Yes; this does very well indeed, so we need think no more about it."
Thea glanced questioningly at Ottenburg. He smiled and bowed, seemed perfectly satisfied. He asked her to stand in the elbow of the piano, in front of him, instead of behind him as she had been taught to do.
"Yes," said the hostess with feeling. "That other position is barbarous."
Thea sang an aria from 'Gioconda,' some songs by Schumann which she had studied with Harsanyi, and the "Tak for Dit Råd," which Ottenburg liked.
"That you must do again," he declared when they finished this song. "You did it much better the other day.
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