"Come with us," asked Lord Randolph, shaking his hand warmly. "A gallop will chase away the clouds of study from your brow. Lady Dora, did you ever behold so altered a face? Why, man, your studio will be the death of you."
"Not that," he replied, looking gloomily downwards; then, as suddenly raising his head, he seemed to chase away shades and clouds, for the face became calm and smiling.
"Will you take me en croupe?" he asked, addressing Lord Randolph, in answer to his question. "I saw but two horses below—yours and Lady Dora's."
"Oh, no! I will send my groom away, if you will mount his. You must accompany us."
"Lady Dora says nothing; the lady may have too much excellent taste to admire a trio. In my opinion much pleasure is often lost in them, either in music or society."
"How so, Mr. Tremenhere?" she asked coldly.
"Why," he answered, laughing,—"there are the soprano, the contralto, and the mezzo; this last I have ever looked upon as an almost indistinct, useless sort of 'lend-its-aid' to support and show off the other two."
"Then I'll play mezzo," cried Lord Randolph good-humouredly, but with singular, though unconscious truth; "for I have a bad headache, and you two shall sing, and I will listen, occasionally throwing in a note."
"Don't let it be one of discord," cried Tremenhere, in the same tone as before. "We must have harmony; if Lady Dora consent to this, I will gladly take your groom's horse."
Her eyes said more than her lips, as she replied—"We shall be most happy of your company."