He had a head, Lilly decided, like the one of Praxiteles in the St.
Louis Museum of Fine Arts--only, the bust implied young hair, and
Trieste's curls were full of gray and the lines of his face were slashed
deeply. He listened, while Lilly talked her brief preamble, as he
invariably did, with his eyes closed and finger tips touching. Finally,
he opened them, regarding Lilly from under swollen, rather
diabetic lids.
"You should sing," he said, his acquired language grating slightly
against the native one.
"No! No!"
"You are young," he said, running his eyes down her body, "and fine and
big and strong."
She rose as if to throw off the crowding stress of the moment.
"Once," she said; "but that is all over now. My little girl--"
"You have temperament--let me hear," he said, reaching out to the piano
and striking out a bold C. "Sing the scale."
"Please!" she cried, the situation an agony to her. "Not me. My
little--"
"Why, Lilly!" said Zoe, regarding her mother with wide, unaffected eyes.
"Sing the scale, dear."
"Do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si-do"--through a crimson flush.
He seemed to lose interest then, turning to Zoe.
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