Morris Townsend agreed with
her that books were tiresome things; only, as he said, you had to
read a good many before you found it out. He had been to places that
people had written books about, and they were not a bit like the
descriptions. To see for yourself--that was the great thing; he
always tried to see for himself. He had seen all the principal
actors--he had been to all the best theatres in London and Paris.
But the actors were always like the authors--they always exaggerated.
He liked everything to be natural. Suddenly he stopped, looking at
Catherine with his smile.
"That's what I like you for; you are so natural! Excuse me," he
added; "you see I am natural myself!"
And before she had time to think whether she excused him or not--
which afterwards, at leisure, she became conscious that she did--he
began to talk about music, and to say that it was his greatest
pleasure in life. He had heard all the great singers in Paris and
London--Pasta and Rubini and Lablache--and when you had done that,
you could say that you knew what singing was.
"I sing a little myself," he said; "some day I will show you. Not
to-day, but some other time."
And then he got up to go; he had omitted, by accident, to say that he
would sing to her if she would play to him. He thought of this after
he got into the street; but he might have spared his compunction, for
Catherine had not noticed the lapse.
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