As Dorothy entered, the secretary consulted a diary.
“You are Miss Reitz? Mr. Soedlich will be ready for you presently. Take a seat.”
As Dorothy sat in a battered, green plush-covered chair, old, but not antique, the stories that she had heard concerning Soedlich began to surge up. It was hard to reconcile these racy tales with the ponderous lecturer who had exasperated the students at St. Cecilia with his dull drawl—and yet they would not down. Had he really deserted his first wife, eloped with his second and fled to Europe to marry a third? Was it true that he held virtue inimical to bel canto? Were his coaching sessions really amorous episodes rather than instruction in the noble art of song?
The girls had told her some of these rumors, and her mother had not only dropped suggestions but thrown them at her forcibly. What would she do if Soedlich practised his fabled technique on her? Disposing of youths who showed an uncommon inclination to kiss or to hold hands was one thing. Evading the embraces of a sensual music master was something else. She would be alone with him in the studio. Studio! The word had a wanton sound. Of course, Madame Schneider had had a studio, but a woman’s studio was distinct from a man’s. It was always in the man’s studio that The Thing Happened.
She found herself growing nervous. She fidgeted on the chair. She couldn’t retreat now without making her- self ridiculous before the secretary. She wondered what she could say to that dignitary that would make a loop- hole for escape.
The secretary, however, seemed to be little disposed to indulge in conversation. She disregarded Dorothy, and scratched away at a little mound of papers, which Dorothy decided was the last batch of monthly statements.
[144]
