“Yes, yes; she is very young,” said the signorino.

But a little shadow had fallen across their placid entertainment.  The spirit had left their memories; they seemed to have grown shapeless, dusty, as the fresh and comely faces of dead Etruscan kings crumble into mould at the touch of the pitiless sunshine.

“Signorino,” said Madame Petrucci, presently, “if you will accompany me, we will perform one of your charming melodies.”

Signor Graziano rose, a little stiffly, and led the pretty withered little Diva to the piano.

Goneril looked on, wondering, admiring.  The signorino’s thin white hands made a delicate fluent melody, reminding her of running water under the rippled shade of trees, and, like a high, sweet bird, the thin, penetrating notes of the singer rose, swelled, and died away, admirably true and just, even in this latter weakness.  At the end, Signor Graziano stopped his playing to give time for an elaborate cadenza.  Suddenly Madame Petrucci gasped, a sharp, discordant sound cracked the delicate finish of her singing.  She put her handkerchief to her mouth.

“Bah!” she said, “this evening I am abominably husky.”

The tears rose to Goneril’s eyes.  Was it so hard to grow old?  This doubt made her voice loudest of all in the chorus of mutual praise and thanks which covered the song’s abrupt finale.

And then there came a terrible ordeal.  Miss Prunty, anxious to divert the current of her friend’s ideas, suggested that the girl should sing.  Signor Graziano and madame insisted; they would take no refusal.

“Sing, sing, little bird!” cried the old lady.

“But, madame, how can one—­after you?”

The homage in the young girl’s voice made the little Diva more good-humouredly insistant than before, and Goneril was too well-bred to make a fuss.  She stood by the piano wondering which to choose, the Handels that she always drawled, or the Pinsuti that she always galloped.  Suddenly she came by an inspiration.

“Madame,” she pleaded, “may I sing one of Angiolino’s songs?”

“Whatever you like, cara mia.”

And standing by the piano, her arms hanging loose, she began a chant such as the peasants use working under the olives.  Her voice was small and deep, with a peculiar thick sweetness that suited the song, half-humorous, half-pathetic.  These were the words she sang:—­

   Vorrei morir di morte piccinina,
   Morta la sera e viva la mattina. 
   Vorrei morire, e non vorrei morire,
   Vorrei veder, chi mi piange e chi lide;
   Vorrei morir, e star sulle finestre,
   Vorrei veder chi mi cuce la veste;
   Vorrei morir, e stare sulla scala,
   Vorrei veder chi mi porta la bara;
   Vorrei morir, e vorre’ alzar la voce,
   Vorrei veder chi mi parta la croce.

“Very well chosen, my dear,” said Miss Prunty, when the song was finished.

“And very well sung, my Gonerilla!” cried the old lady.