“Is Saul sad to-night?” she asked, smiling up at him.
“A little fatigued and perplexed, and anxious to have his cares exorcised by the magic of your fingers.”
With womanly tact she selected a fantasia which Mr. Granville had often pronounced the gem of her repertoire, and momentarily expected to hear his whispered thanks; but page after page was turned, and still her lover did not approach the piano, where Dr. Grey stood with folded arms and slightly contracted brows. Muriel played brilliantly, and was pardonably proud of her proficiency, which Mr. Granville had confessed first attracted his attention; and to-night, when the piece was concluded and she commenced a Polonaise, she looked over her shoulder hoping to meet a grateful, fond glance. But his eyes were riveted on the fair rosy face at his side, and his betrothed bit her pouting lip and made sundry blunders.
As she rose from the piano-stool, Mr. Granville exclaimed,—
“Miss Muriel, you love music so well that I trust you will add your persuasions to mine, and induce Miss Owen to sing for us, as she declares she is comparatively a tyro in instrumental music, and would not venture to perform in your presence.”
“She has never sung for me, but I hope she will not refuse your request. Salome, will you not oblige us?”
Muriel’s eyes were dim with tears, but her sweet voice did not falter.
“I was not aware that you sang at all,” said Miss Dexter, looking up from a mat which she was crocheting.
“She has a fine voice, but is very obstinate in declining to use it. Come, Salome, don’t be childish, dear. Sing something,” coaxed Miss Jane.