They played a duet together. Mr. Thompson did his best, and the piece, it is needless to say, was most charmingly rendered.
“It is not often,” observed Mr. Thompson, “that I meet with such an admirable executant. Really, madam, your style is most admirable, and merits the warmest commendation.”
“Ah, sir, you flatter; I am out of practice.”
“I should hardly have supposed so. However, we will, if you please, try another.”
“I am a little nervous,” suggested the lady.
“Oh, but you must get over that. Remember we are not playing before an audience, only to amuse ourselves.”
Mrs. Bourne thought he was a very nice old gentleman, quiet, unobtrusive, and well-behaved.
As we have before intimated, Charles Peace was a most plausible man, and could deceive the most wary person in the world.
Another duet was gone through with even greater success than the first, and the girl, Amy, who was waiting for Mrs. Bourne in the brougham, wondered what was detaining her mistress. She heard the sounds of music, and was under the impression that the doctor’s widow was taking a lesson of some well-known professor.
After the second duet was over, Mrs. Bourne rose from the music-stool on which she had been seated, and said—