“Now, how can you possibly tell? You can’t know that much, at any rate.”
“I can’t tell how I know, but it is he,” answers his niece in the same tones.
Glory does not say anything, but stands up ready to catch a first glimpse of the stranger, whoever it may be.
A few minutes more and Miss Mundella’s predictions are fulfilled; and ere a quarter of an hour has elapsed our young friend Claude is sitting down to supper with the station folk, after being formally introduced to all present, including Mr. Cummercropper, the high-toned and love-sick station storekeeper, by Miss Glory Giles as “My hero,”—a title which Angland in vain attempts to show he does not deserve, but one that enamoured youth intensely enjoys all the same.
Claude had felt his heart beat quicker as he “saw the station roofs,”—the place from which his uncle’s last letter had reached him. A thousand emotions poured through his soul. Anxious thoughts were amongst them. He was about to meet people of whom, somehow, he had vague suspicions. Would he be welcome? Would he be even safe?
But now, as he sits next his fair-haired young goddess, a very Juventus of youth and vigour, amidst the pleasant and jovial conversation of his new friends, in a brilliantly-lighted and elegantly-furnished room, a new set of thoughts comes to oust his lately sombre ones. He finds himself the honoured and welcome guest of an hospitable and charming circle; and although Claude is not generally accustomed to wear his heart upon his sleeve, his happy revulsion of feelings is inclining him to a dangerous revelation of his private concerns, when something occurs to sober him suddenly and put him once more upon his guard.
Claude’s conversation has been mainly with his host and that gentleman’s charming daughter. Mr. Cummercropper spoke only when the Arts were mentioned, and then rather incoherently. Lileth was silently watching and studying the new-comer, only putting in an odd word here and there, where courtesy demanded it. Presently the subject of music is discussed, and Glory, amongst other new songs, speaks of “Killaloo.”
As the name of this remarkable ballad is mentioned, Claude’s thoughts rush to the midnight scene upon the viaduct with a sort of graveyard chilliness,—the air whistled by the elegant desperado at his side, the blue-white electric lights upon the rink. Angland becomes serious at once.
Miss Mundella here, at last, joins in the conversation, and at some length condemns certain of the caprices of modern musical taste, which is a favourite theme of hers. Going on to speak of certain newly-published ballads that call forth her unfavourable criticisms, she mentions the crickets (Gryllus), which, according to Mouffet, are objects of commerce in certain African tribes, and are sold about, as canary birds are amongst Europeans, to the inhabitants, who like to hear their amorous chant.
“Their chirping would be irritable to the ears of persons trained to more melodious sounds,” Lileth concludes by saying, “but the caprice of those African blacks is not one whit stranger than that of those who enjoy some of the more modern drawing-room songs.” Mr. Cummercropper gazes in weak-eyed rapture at his dark-eyed enchantress as she speaks, and inclines his large, pink ears unto her. He is even about to second her remarks. But he gets no further than, “Yhas, bai Joave,” when he accidentally drops his eyeglass into his wine, which misfortune entirely upsets all his ideas, and renders him hopelessly nervous during the remainder of the evening.