“Just popular music,” said Guinevere. “I was going to take ‘The Holy City’ and ‘The Rosary’ last year, but the vocal teacher got sick.”
In response to a very urgent invitation, she took her seat again, and this time sang a sentimental ditty concerning the affairs of one “Merry Little Milly in the Month of May.”
This selection met with prompt favor, and the men left their cards, and gathered about the piano, demanding an encore.
Miss Guinevere’s voice was very small, and her accompaniment very loud, but, in her effort to please, she unconsciously became dramatic in her expression, and frowned and smiled and lifted her brows in sympathy with the emotions of the damsel in the song. And Miss Guinevere’s eyes being [p163] expressive and her lips very red, the result proved most satisfactory to the audience.
One stout young man in particular expressed himself in such unrestrained terms of enthusiasm, that Guinevere, after singing several songs, became visibly embarrassed. Upon the plea of being too warm she made her escape, half-promising to return and sing again later on.
Flushed with the compliments and the excitement, and a little uncertain about the propriety of it all, she hurried through the swing-door and, turning suddenly on the deck, stumbled over something in the darkness.
It proved to be a pair of long legs that were stretched out in front of a silent figure, who shot a hand out to restore Miss Gusty to an upright position. But the deck was slippery from the rain, and before he could catch her, she went down on her knees.
“Did it hurt you?” a voice asked anxiously.
[p164]
“It don’t matter about me,” answered Guinevere, “just so it didn’t spoil my new dress. I’m afraid there’s an awful tear in it.”
“I hope not,” said the voice. “I’d hate to be guilty of dress slaughter even in the second degree. Sure you are not hurt? Sit down a minute; here’s a chair right behind you, out of the wind.”