“Has Lilia sung to you yet?” he asked.
“No, and I do not intend to,” said the young lady, jumping up from the sofa where she was sitting by Mrs. Mervyn, and joining us.
“And pray why not?” asked Sir Roderick.
She shook her head and turned aside. For a minute or two I naturally felt embarrassed. But I saw that Mrs. Mervyn was expostulating with her, and presently, after I had taken part in a conversation suddenly started by Mr. Mervyn on the strange vagaries of nervous diseases, apropos of an afflicted poor person he wished me to see, Lilia rose and came back, looking penitent.
“Can I speak?” she began, humbly, when a pause came. “Thanks! I will sing for you with pleasure, Mr. Paull.”
“Not unless you tell us the reason of your extraordinary caprice,” said Sir Roderick, half-bantering, half annoyed. “Come, out with it!”
“You insist, papa?” She spoke pleadingly.
“I do.”
“Mr. Paull reminds me of that dreadful time you were ill—away. I could not sing anything lively; I should choke.”
It was good to see the expression on that old man’s face. There was such a royal content on his fine old features as he looked up at his child.