"Does not Dominga look splendid?" murmured her mother, gazing at her in rapture as she stood up and looked towards them. "Oh, I have always said she only wanted dress. Now you go and sing."
"I feel so diffident about coming after you," said Verona, as she approached the piano, "but they want to hear me."
"Yes, and so do I; I daresay I have some of your songs," replied Dominga, with an air of gracious patronage, and then turning aside, she began to root among a quantity of tattered, old-fashioned music.
A few songs that were clean and new, Dominga kept exclusively apart, and on one of these Verona noticed that the name of "Dominga Chandos" was inscribed in a bold masculine hand by someone named "Charlie." Finally, failing to discover anything to suit her mezzo-soprano, she sat down and sang from memory the "Sands of Dee."
Verona had an exquisitely sweet, haunting voice; every note was clear and full, and told. When she had removed her hands from the piano, instead of applause, there ensued strange silence. Monty and his father-in-law were standing inside the door and the face of the latter was working with some irrepressible emotion.
"Whatt a nice little song," exclaimed Mrs. Chandos. "Why," with a sudden start, "here are the Cavalhos," as she descried two figures mounting the steps. "Oh, my goodness, whatt a bother."
"May we come in?" inquired a high, chirrupy treble, and without waiting for a reply, an elderly woman, wearing a white dress and a black apron, walked forward, followed by her husband, a very stout, clean-shaven man with a round bullet head. They were both decidedly dark, but had kind, good-tempered faces, and indeed, in Mistress Cavalho's sweet dark eyes there lingered traces of a once renowned beauty.
"We heard Dominga singing," she announced, "so we knew you must have the lamp lit in the drawing-room, and we came over in a friendly way to see"—here she glanced incredulously at Verona—"is this your daughter?" She pronounced it "da-ter."
"Yes."
"Oh, how do you do, Miss. I hope you will like Manora."