He sat at the piano and faced her, swinging idly back and forth, his
hands loosely clasped. His lips were parted in a smile of quaint
amusement.
“It will never do to try to sing with such a red nose,” he suggested.
She laughed, in spite of her plight, and struck out at him playfully in
the air, then turned her back and spent an intensive moment before the
tiny mirror of her vanity case.
Curry reached round to the keyboard with one bejewelled hand and struck a
chord. “First your running scale—you know—with one over the octave.”
She started in bravely, though, just as she had expected, in no time he
had stopped her, and was assuring her she was working too hard. “Didn’t
I tell you you were all tied up?” Then he struck another chord. “Give
me some soft work, please—some nice, quiet, smooth ‘ti-roos.’ No, no!
Piano—_piano_! Wait a minute. You’re not on your breath.” He shook his
head critically. “No, you’re not on your breath at all. Just relax—don’t
be afraid—just feel restful. Let your shoulders down—there!”
“Relaxing won’t get the tin whistle out of my throat!” she lamented
doggedly.
“We’ll see,” he soothed. “Try again—‘ti-roo.’” He listened carefully, his
head on one side. “Put it more forward—right on your lips. Ti-roo-oo-oo.
Let the breath carry it. Now once more.”
Half an hour passed, and still she was too “open.” The impresario,
perspiring a little from concentrated exertion, scratched his head
carefully, so as not to displace the shining toupee. Then, suddenly
inspired, he jumped up from the piano stool.
“Look here,” he cried, “I want to see what your ribs are doing. Don’t
you _dare_ let them fall on the attack—if you do you’re lost! When you
sing for those smug fellows in Cape Town I want you to think of your
ribs every minute—you understand? Don’t think about who’s listening to
you—_think about your ribs_!”
Placing one glistening hand intelligently against the singer’s ribs,
Mr. Curry asked her to sigh for him. “Say: ‘Ooooooo.’” He waited
breathlessly. “No—you let ’em fall! It’s just what I was afraid of!”
He studied her a moment, very earnestly. Then his face lighted. “Try
‘Ahhhhh.’” And at last the effort succeeded. “You’ve got it!” he cried
exultantly. “Didn’t I _tell_ you they’d stay up if you went at ’em right?
Now the same thing on your ‘ti-roo.’ Wait a minute and I’ll give you the
key.”
The impresario, keeping one hand firmly on Miss Valentine’s ribs, reached
far out to the piano with the other. “That’s it!” The next chord was
triumphant, and the next chord after that was more triumphant still. His
songbird was coming back into her own again.
“Feel as though you’re leaning on your face!” he cried. “Don’t be afraid
of your face—it won’t fall out!”
Then he made her send air through her nose with her mouth open—which
made her look a little ludicrous, but then, was there ever a genuine
singer who cared how she looked when she sang? And he made her sing
“La-la-la-la-la,” over and over again, and told her she ought to feel
her tongue wag up from the bottom of her throat, and talked a great deal
about a mysterious region in back of her teeth, and put her through the
ordeal of the “silent attack.” And then—oh, well, there was nothing much
left to do but sit back and enjoy the fruits of tireless patience. But
they plunged into arpeggios, for good measure, and the impresario kept
nodding, pleased and more pleased—though he had an eagle eye on her all
the time, too.
She was really singing now—had got all untied—the tin whistle was cast
out. After a little supplementary staccato work he turned to her with
mild, appealing eyes, which glistened very suspiciously.