“Of course you’ve enjoyed the evening?” said she, in a friendly tone.
Cousin Ola thought of the pitiful part he had been playing all evening; his unsociableness weighed so much upon his mind that he answered—the very stupidest thing he could have answered, he thought, the moment the words were out of his lips—“I’m so sorry that I can’t sing.”
“I suppose it’s a family failing,” answered the fair one, with a rapid glance.
“N-n-no,” said Ola, exceedingly put out, “my brother sings capitally.”
“Do you think so?” she said, drily.
This was the most astounding thing that had ever happened to Ola: that there could be more than one opinion about his brother’s singing, and that she, his “future wife,” did not seem to admire it! And yet it was not quite unpleasant to him to hear it.
Again there was a silence, which Ola sought in vain to break.
“Don’t you care for dancing?” she asked.
“Not with every one,” he blurted out.
She laughed: “No, no; but gentlemen have the right to choose.”