opera houses—the San Carlo, in Naples; the Scala—unknown to Harry Baggs, but which came to him with a strange vividness. The learning of the Serenade progressed slowly; French Janin forgot whole phrases, some of which returned to memory; one entire line he was forced to supply from imagination.
At last the boy could sing it with a degree of intelligence; Janin translated and reconstructed the scene, the characters.
"You ought to have some good clothes," he told Harry Baggs; he spoke again of the necessity of a diamond stud.
"Well, I haven't," the other stated shortly. "They'll have to listen to me without looking."
He borrowed a rusted razor and subjected himself to the pain of an awkward shaving; then inadequately washed his sole shirt and looped the frayed collar with a nondescript tie.
The night was immaculate; the moon, past the full, cast long segments of light and shadow across the countryside. Harry Baggs drew a deep breath:
"We might as well go."
French Janin objected; he wasn't ready; he wasn't quite sure of what he was going to say. Then:
"I haven't anything to show. Perhaps they will laugh at me—at Janin, of the Opéra Comique. I couldn't allow that."
"I'm going to sing," the boy reminded him; "if it's any good they won't laugh. If what you say's right they'll have to believe you."
"I feel bad to-night, too, in my legs."
"Get your violin."
