"In the original key?" she asked. "I know it well. It is one of
Goldschmidt's favorite concert pieces."
"Not in the original key. I have transposed it two notes lower, and put
some sort of words to it. I also sing as a vocalize the first sixteen bars
of the overture of Mendelssohn's 'Midsummer Night's Dream.'"
"I don't think that I could do that," she said.
"I am sure you could," I answered, upon which she tried it. She sang it
slowly but perfectly, shutting her eyes as if feeling her way cautiously,
for the intonations are very difficult.
Twelve o'clock sounded from a cuckoo-clock in the next room, and I felt
that my visit, fascinating as my angel was, must come to an end. I left
her still standing on the veranda in her white brocade, and as I walked
off she made the trill as an adieu.
I reached the villa in time for breakfast, after which our hosts drove us
down to the pier, where the little rowboat was waiting to take us out to
the yacht.
I said that our trip was a failure! It was more than a failure. It meant a
gale, thunder, lightning, and sudden death, and everything in the Litany,
and we finished ignominiously by taking refuge in the first port we could
reach, and going on to our destination by train.