Portrait of a Girl Read Free

forged between us. Whatever happened in the future I knew that in some strange way we were already bound, for good or ill.
    ‘ Well?’ I heard him say, through the dizzy whirl of excitement. ‘Are you dumb, child? Or just not interested?’
    ‘ Of course I’m interested,’ I heard myself reply, almost in a whisper. ‘Of course. Of course —’
    He smiled, and touched my shoulder lightly. It could have been a fatherly touch; but it wasn’t — quite. For a second or two the years between us were dispelled. The whole world seemed to brighten and sing. We stood — woman and man facing each other on an enchanted shore while knowledge flowered and I knew life would never be quite the same again. Then, suddenly, it was over. Facts came into focus. I was merely Josephine Lebrun, a girl possessing a voice good enough to stir the interest of a would-be wealthy sponsor. So I steeled myself to appear dignified, even a little aloof, and continued, though still breathlessly, ‘Who is he? This theatre person? And how do you know I’d please him?’
    ‘ I don’t. We shall have to find out.’
    The sudden abrupt tone of voice and manner chilled me. It was as though in a few short words he deliberately intended to cast me down.
    Perhaps I’d been stupid and taken too much for granted. Perhaps after all, this idea of his was a mere whim — a rich man’s passing game to provide stimulus and amusement for a time. Or perhaps he really was genuine, but cautious of disappointing me. The uncertainty must have shown in my expression. I felt my shoulders droop as I got up and turned towards the door. In a second he was there before me.
    ‘ Now don’t you run away,’ I heard him saying, as though talking to a child. ‘You must learn not to show moods or tempers. And don’t expect praise all the time. You have a nice voice, yes. But Signor Luigi will expect more than that—’
    ‘ Luigi?’
    ‘ My friend. He is half Italian, and was once a famous name in Opera — as a tenor in his prime, and later as producer. So of course, his contacts are valuable. If he thinks your talent worth troubling about I’ve no doubt I’ll be able to persuade him to take you on. But you’ll have to obey him and work hard. He can be a difficult tutor, because he is naturally a perfectionist. Do you understand? Have you the first idea of what I’m trying to din into you?’
    The golden slits of his eyes gleamed brilliantly, unswervingly on mine.
    With my chin lifted an inch higher I faced him very directly.
    ‘ I think so. I’m trying.’
    ‘ Very well. This then is what I propose. You will leave the Golden Bird in the next few days, and travel with me to my home on the North Coast. There is a cottage on the estate where you can live providing you keep an eye on certain things. I have a caretaker there, but she is getting old and not entirely capable of handling special objets d’art . Her eyes are no longer very good, and her hands are shaky, but she can cook still, and do a certain amount of cleaning. If you are willing you will assist her when necessary, for your board and lodging, and of course to help pay for your tuition. Luigi does not give his services for nothing.’
    He paused; and after a moment I asked, ‘Where, if I agree, shall I have my lessons? There? At your cottage?’
    He gave a short laugh.
    ‘ My dear girl! no, of course not. Once or twice a week my chaise will take you to Truro. Your lessons can be arranged for suitable premises according to Luigi’s choice. That is — if he agrees.’
    If— if ! again the doubt.
    Although exhilarated still, I was bewildered, a little uneasy. Everything had happened so quickly, and I couldn’t help wishing that the future could have been arranged without the necessity of having to be dictated to by the ‘perfectionist’ — the critical and, I was sure, fiery Italian Luigi.
    Apart from that the condition that I’d be expected to help at the cottage in any caretaking business seemed