THE SONG OF THE LARK
stopped and scowled at a passage. The old German's blurred eyes watched her curiously.
"For what do you look so, immer?" puckering up his own face. "You see something a little difficult, may-be, and you make such a face like it was an enemy."
Thea laughed, disconcerted. "Well, difficult things are enemies, are n't they? When you have to get them?"
Wunsch lowered his head and threw it up as if he were butting something. "Not at all! By no means." He took the book from her and looked at it. "Yes, that is not so easy, there. This is an old book. They do not print it so now any more, I think. They leave it out, may-be. Only one woman could sing that good."
Thea looked at him in perplexity.
Wunsch went on. "It is written for alto, you see. A woman sings the part, and there was only one to sing that good in there. You understand? Only one!" He glanced at her quickly and lifted his red forefinger upright before her eyes.
Thea looked at the finger as if she were hypnotized. "Only one?" she asked breathlessly; her hands, hanging at her sides, were opening and shutting rapidly.
Wunsch nodded and still held up that compelling finger. When he dropped his hands, there was a look of satisfaction in his face.
"Was she very great?"
Wunsch nodded.
"Was she beautiful?"
"Aber gar nicht! Not at all. She was ugly; big mouth, big teeth, no figure, nothing at all," indicating a luxuriant bosom by sweeping his hands over his chest. "A pole, a post! But for the voice—ach! She have something in there, behind the eyes," tapping his temples.
Thea followed all his gesticulations intently. "Was she German?"
"No, Spanisch." He looked down and frowned for a
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