in opera.

The Marguerite had a voice of sufficient compass, and rather sweet,
though thin. The part demands a better _actress_ than Patti, and this
Fraulein was not half as good: she put on the painful grin of a
prize-fighter who has received a staggerer, and grinned all through the
part, though there is little in it to grin at.

She also suffered by having to play to a Faust milked of his poetry, and
self-smitten with a _tremolo_ which, as I said before, is the voice of
palsy, and is not, nor ever was, nor ever will be, the voice of passion.
Bless your heart, passion is a manly thing, a womanly thing, a grand
thing, not a feeble, quavering, palsied, anile, senile thing. Learn that,
ye trembling, quavering idiots of song!

"They let me down," whispered Ina Klosking to her faithful Ashmead. "I
feel all out of tune. I shall never be able. And the audience so cold. It
will be like singing in a sepulcher."

"What would you think of them, if they applauded?" said Ashmead.

"I should say they were good, charitable souls, and the very audience I
shall want in five minutes."

"No, no," said Ashmead, "all you want is a discriminating audience; and
this is one. Remember they have all seen Patti in Marguerite. Is it
likely they would applaud this tin stick?"

Ina turned the conversation with feminine quickness. "Mr. Ashmead, have
you kept your promise; my name is not in the programme?"