Miss Limpenny grew desperate. "Sophia," she pleaded, "pray sing us one of your cheerful ballads."
Sophia looked at Mr. Moggridge. He had always turned over the pages for her so devotedly. Surely he would make some sign now. Alas! all his eyes were for Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.
"I will try," she assented with something dangerously like a sob.
She stepped to the "Collard" at a pace remorselessly timed to the "Dead March," and chose her ballad—a trifle of Mr. Moggridge's composition. It would reproach him more sharply than words, she thought. A cloud of angry tears blurred her sight as she struck the tinkling prelude.
"A month ago Lysander prayed To Jove,
to Cupid, and to Venus—"
"A month ago Lysander prayed To Jove,
to Cupid, and to Venus—"
Thrum-thrum-thrum went the double bass next door. Mr. Moggridge looked up. How thin and reedy Sophia's voice sounded to-night! He had never thought so before.
"That he might die, if he betrayed
A single vow that passed between us."
"That he might die, if he betrayed
A single vow that passed between us."
"Sweetly touching!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.