She bent her head. She had no voice--not for song, not for speech, not
even for a monosyllable.
Crossley took Moldini aside where Mildred could not hear. "Mollie,"
said he, "this girl crept up on me, and I've got to give her a trial.
As you see, she's a lady, and you know what they are."
"Punk," said Moldini.
Crossley nodded. "She seems a nice sort, so I want to let her down
easy. I'll sit back in the house, in the dark. Run her through that
'Batti Batti' thing she's got with her. If she's plainly on the fritz,
I'll light a cigarette. If I don't light up, try the other song she
has. If I still don't light up make her go through that 'Ah, were you
here, love,' from the piece. But if I light up, it means that I'm
going to light out, and that you're to get rid of her--tell her we'll
let her know if she'll leave her address. You understand?"
"Perfectly."
Far from being thrilled and inspired, her surroundings made her sick at
heart--the chill, the dampness, the bare walls, the dim, dreary lights,
the coarsely-painted flats-- At last she was on the threshold of her
chosen profession. What a profession for such a person as she had
always been! She stood beside Moldini, seated at the piano. She gazed
at the darkness, somewhere in whose depths Crossley was hidden. After
several false starts she sang the "Batti Batti" through, sang it
atrociously--not like a poor professional, but like a pretentious
amateur, a reversion to a manner of singing she had once had, but had
long since got rid of. She paused at the end, appalled by the silence,
by the awfulness of her own performance.
From the darkness a slight click. If she had known!--for, it was
Crossley's match-safe.
The sound, slight yet so clear, startled her, roused her. She called
out: "Mr. Crossley, won't you please be patient enough to let me try
that again?"