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 moment. ”ACH, I tell

you, she look like the Frau Tellamantez, some-thing. Long face, long

chin, and ugly al-so.”

“Did she die a long while ago?”

“Die? I think not. I never hear, anyhow. I guess she is alive somewhere

in the world; Paris, may-be. But old, of course. I hear her when I was a

youth. She is too old to sing now any more.”

“Was she the greatest singer you ever heard?”

Wunsch nodded gravely. “Quite so. She was the most—” he hunted for an

English word, lifted his hand over his head and snapped his fingers

noiselessly in the air, enunciating fiercely, “KUNST-LER-ISCH!” The word

seemed to glitter in his uplifted hand, his voice was so full of

emotion.

Wunsch rose from the stool and began to button his wadded jacket,

preparing to return to his half-heated room in the loft. Thea

regretfully put on her cloak and hood and set out for home.

When Wunsch looked for his score late that afternoon, he found that Thea

had not forgotten to take it with her. He smiled his loose, sarcastic

smile, and thoughtfully rubbed his stubbly chin with his red fingers.

When Fritz came home in the early blue twilight the snow was flying

faster, Mrs. Kohler was cooking HASENPFEFFER in the kitchen, and the

professor was seated at the piano, playing the Gluck, which he knew by

heart. Old Fritz took off his shoes quietly behind the stove and lay

down on ii?UIn?ois?[?e[?A’SNP?RR??X°#

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