What a wonderful experience those lessons proved, lasting sometimes nearly two hours! When he was interested in explaining certain effects in singing or in recounting stories of artists and operas _apropos_ of the work in hand, time ceased to exist. The luncheon-bell would ring three or four times without having any apparent effect, so engrossed was he in his subject. At the end of the lesson he would, with the old courtliness of his youth, insist on seeing one out himself. If one opened the door and stood aside for him to pass, the manœuvre proved perfectly useless. With a delightful gesture he insisted on his guest preceding him, saying, "Ici je suis chez moi." Then he would skilfully slip along the hall and open the front door. There he would stand--oblivious, and apparently impervious, to draughts and cold--chatting for several minutes or giving some parting advice before holding out his hand and wishing one _au revoir_. Almost more surprising is it that he should have continued to carry on his correspondence. Many a long letter was received from him during those years; while on one occasion he actually wrote out the entire music of an Italian aria, "Liete voci," giving his own elaborations of the original melody. During the lessons he would remain seated at the piano, undertaking all accompaniments himself. These would be given quietly, but with a firm, rhythmical precision. In the case of the old Italian arie, they would generally be played from memory. His white expressive hands would weave elaborate preludes and harmonies into the music, and as one sang he would sit with closed eyes as though his thoughts were far away. But they were not, they were very much present. If a mistake were made the music would cease, the error be pointed out, and a suggestion given for its correction. This would take the form either of some helpful little observation, made in clear, precise terms, or of personal illustration, given in English, or more often French. Though over ninety years old, he was quite equal to showing how he wanted notes taken or an effect given by singing the passage himself. On one memorable occasion he sang two entire octaves, commencing at the low A flat, and ending with a high baritone G sharp. It sounds an almost incredible _tour de force_, but is an absolute fact. The voice naturally trembled with age, though in a surprisingly slight degree. But the timbre, enunciation, and dramatic power were still there, while every phrase revealed the extraordinary fire of his Spanish temperament. When he had been singing thus one day he laughed and said, "I cannot sing any more. You see how the voice trembles. That, you must not imitate. The tremolo is an abomination--it is execrable. Never allow it to appear, even for a moment, in your voice. It blurs the tone and gives a false effect. Many French singers cultivate it, and I will tell you why."