"My dear Enid, how am I to know which singer you mean?" he said, letting the newspaper drop from his hand, and clasping his hands leisurely behind his head. "There are so many new singers!"
They had been having tea under the beech-tree, and, as usual, had been left alone to do their love-making, undisturbed. Their love-making was of a very undemonstrative character. Enid sat in one comfortable basket-chair, Hubert in another, at a yard's distance. Their conversation went on in fragments, interspersed by long pauses filled up by an orchestra of birds in the branches overhead.
"I do not remember her name exactly," said Enid. "The Tollemaches were talking about her yesterday; they heard her in town last week. 'Cynthia' something—'Cynthia,' I remember that, because it is such an uncommon name."
"I suppose you mean Miss Cynthia West," said Hubert, after a very long pause.
"Yes, 'Cynthia West'—that was the name. Have you heard her?"
"Yes."
"And do you think her very wonderful?"
"She is a remarkably fine singer."
"Oh, I hope we shall hear her when we next go up to London! Aunt Leo wants me to stay with her."
"That will be very nice," said Hubert, bestirring himself a little. "Then you will hear all the novelties. But I would not go just yet if I were you, London has not begun to wake up again after its winter sleep."