"Yes, Fraeulein," he said, employing the familiar _du_, "thou hast
overcome me. Why not accept my offer?" Was this the prudent Hugh Krayne
talking? She smiled sweetly and shook her head. Her voice was delicious
in colour and intonation, nor did it betray humble origin.
"I fear, dear sir, that what you offer is impossible. My sister, the
soprano, would never hear of such a thing. My brother, her husband,
would not allow it. And I owe them my living, my education. How could I
repay them if I left them now?" she hesitated.
"Simply enough. You would be a singer at the opera some day, and take
them all to live with you. Is there no other reason?" He recollected
with a vivid sense of the disagreeable the lively antics of a lithe
youth in the company, who, at the close of the concert, executed with
diabolic dexterity what they called a _Schuhplattltanz_. This dance had
glued Krayne's attention, for Roeselein was the young tenor singer's
partner. With their wooden sabots they clattered and sang, waving wildly
their arms or else making frantic passages of pretended love and
coquetry.
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