"I have no music here. And I cannot sing properly when I play my own accompaniments."
"Tell me something you know and let me see whether I can play it," said Oliver.
She paused for a moment, then, with a smile in her eyes, she mentioned a name which made him laugh and elevate his eyebrows. "Do you know that?" she said.
"Rather! Is it not a trifle hackneyed? Ah, well, not for this audience, perhaps. Yes, I will play." And then, just as Caspar Brooke, with a slight gesture of annoyance, turned to explain to the people that a singer whom he expected had not come, Oliver touched him on the arm.
"Miss Brooke is going to sing, please," he said. "Will you announce her?"
Mr. Brooke stared hard for a moment, then bowed his head.
"My daughter will now sing to you," he said, curtly, and sat down again, grasping his brown beard with one hand.
"Can she sing?" Mrs. Romaine said in his ear, with an accent of veiled surprise.
"I do not know in the least. I hope it will be English, at any rate. These good people don't care for French and Italian things."
Mrs. Romaine saw that he looked undoubtedly nervous, and just then Oliver began the prelude to Lesley's song. It was certainly English enough. It was "Home, Sweet Home."