"Thank you."
"And here is Pedro, my husband, come to pay his respects."
Pedro gave his stout body a little jerk—doubtless intended for a bow.
"Now, pray do not let us stop the music," accepting a seat on the sofa beside Mrs. Chandos.
"Oh, my! Dominga, you do sing better and better; that last song, it nearly killed me. We waited outside to listen; it sounded like an angel who was shut up in some prison house and breaking her heart; I tell you it squeezed my throat, and Pedro—oh, he gave one great sob." Here Pedro, with a deprecatory grin, suddenly backed into the verandah and the company of his host.
"Oh, I never heard such singing," resumed his wife, with her eyes fixed on Dominga, "my, my, whatt a gift! What pleasure to others." A moment's pause, then, with a sudden laugh, Nicky burst out:
"It was Verona," pointing with a rude forefinger, "Verona, who gave your throat a squeeze, and made old Daddy sob."
Once more there was a silence, this time of a truly painful description. Dominga's face was livid; her mother's mouth was set, and there was an angry sparkle in her eye.
Then Verona, with extraordinary courage and presence of mind, threw herself into the gulf and said:
"It was the pretty air which affected you, Mrs. Cavalho; my voice is very poor in comparison to my sister's."