"Doris, will you sing us something, dear?" says Mrs. Merivale from the distance; and Doris, somewhat reassured by her feeling of complete confidence in her young accompanist, resigns herself to her fate with a tolerably good grace. Gounod's graceful little chanson 'Au Printemps' is the first the girls select from the goodly pile which Molly has brought down, and the effective accompaniment with the fresh young voice soon draw an appreciative group round the piano. 'The Sands of Dee' is next placed upon the stand by Colonel Danvers, and Molly, nothing loth, starts off at once with the prelude without ever consulting Doris's inclination in the matter.
DORIS SINGS "THE SANDS OF DEE."
One or two other songs quickly follow, and then some of the guests take their leave, while one or two, Colonel Danvers and old Sir Peter being amongst the number, go up and speak kindly to Molly, who, now that her duties are over, is standing a little abstractedly by the piano, running her fingers noiselessly up and down the keys.
"What a pity the Hortons had to leave so early," says the colonel to Molly. "With you here to accompany so well we might have prevailed on Hugh to sing. I do so like of all things to hear his tenor voice in 'Molly Bawn,' and also the immortal 'Sally in our Alley.'"
"One would think he could sing nothing else," remarks Molly, "by the way in which he persists in dosing us with those two, and especially the former. I am always wanting him to learn others—there are such heaps of pretty tenor songs—but it's no use; he will keep on with those and other old ones. He says none of the new songs can hold a candle to them, but I don't know—I believe it is laziness, really."
The example of the first departures being quickly followed by others, the room is soon cleared of all the guests, save Sir Peter Beresford, who being passionately fond of music, begs his hostess to allow Molly to sit up five minutes longer that she may play him one more piece.
Mrs. Merivale looks doubtfully from Molly to the clock and then back again.
"Well, sit down, Molly, and play something to Sir Peter—you know which are his favourites,—then you must all three run away off to bed instantly. Here is Doris yawning behind her fan, and Honor looks whiter than her frock, if anything. I don't know what father will say, I am sure."