"But she sings detestably!"
"No doubt," Galbraith admitted, "but she makes a great big noise always
on the right note, and that's what that bunch of penny whistlers can't
do without. Give her a little time," he concluded diplomatically, "and
I'll try to teach her."
"It can't be taught," said Patricia. "That's too much even for you."
So it happened that when Rose came out of her own nightmare, got her
breath and found leisure to look around, she found some one else whose
troubles weren't so transitory. The little scene in the first act,
between Sylvia and the sextette, was held up again and again, endlessly,
it seemed to Rose,--and what must it have seemed to the poor
victim?--while Galbraith bellowed Larson's lines after her, sometimes in
grotesque imitation of her own inflections, sometimes in what was meant
as a pattern for her to follow. The girl whose ear was so wonderfully
sensitive to pitch and rhythm, was simply deaf, it seemed, to the
subtleties of inflection. She reduced Galbraith to helpless wrath, in
her panic, by mistaking now and again, his imitations for his models.
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