Page:Our Little Girl (1923).pdf/88

 half an hour before he appeared. But once he was on the stage—then it was different. He lost himself in the music.”

“Did they say anything about my voice?” asked Dorothy.

“A good voice, yes.”

Dorothy was dismayed.

“But if they weren’t impressed with my voice-"

Mme. Graaberg waved her hand grandly.

“It’s a fine voice—do not worry about that. Many a big singer might envy you such freshness of tone and your beautiful diction. It is there your strength lies. Such a lovely diction!”

Dorothy soon discovered that her achievements at the concert had not gone unnoticed by her fellow pupils. Rose Manning, a slim little girl, whose bright brown eyes and deep red hair made her the centre of attraction at the visits of the St. Michael choristers, approached her one afternoon in the library, bearing compliments. Dorothy had always mistrusted Rose. She was a little precocious. Her attainments as a coloratura soprano had been nothing remarkable, but it was said that no male instructor ever criticized her singing adversely. Rose was always rumored engaged—although she denied indignantly the charge direct. The report was that Rose had been breaking hearts since she was fifteen—and sometimes she didn’t look much more than that, even now. There were two opinions of Rose: one, that she “sang with her hair": two, that beneath her artless ways there was something very lovely, if you could find it. Rose’s contemporaries were inclined to accept the first dictum.

“Madame Graaberg certainly taught you something!” cooed Rose.

Was there mockery back of this? Dorothy nodded at