From that hour Ina was the landlady's pet. The room and piano were made
over to her, and, being in a great fright at what she had undertaken, she
studied and practiced her part night and day. She made Ashmead call a
rehearsal next day, and she came home from it wretched and almost
hysterical.

She summoned her slave Ashmead; he stood before her with an air of
hypocritical submission.

"The Flute was not at rehearsal, sir," said she, severely, "nor the Oboe,
nor the Violoncello."

"Just like 'em," said Ashmead, tranquilly.

"The tenor is a quavering stick. He is one of those who think that an
unmanly trembling of the voice represents every manly passion."

"Their name is legion."

"The soprano is insipid. And they are all imperfect--contentedly
imperfect, How can people sing incorrectly? It is like lying."

"That is what makes it so common--he! he!"

"I do not desire wit, but consolation. I believe you are Mephistopheles
himself in disguise; for ever since I signed that diabolical compact you
made me, I have been in a state of terror, agitation, misgiving, and
misery--and I thank and bless you for it; for these thorns and nettles
they lacerate me, and make me live. They break the dull, lethargic agony