"Oh I can make room if I want to," rejoined Blanche, meeting her sister's gaze with a bold stare.
"Truly you are paid a fine compliment by Mistress Blanche," put in her irrepressible Nani. "She does not care for guests. She likes, as the proverb says, 'Talk in my house—a dinner—in yours.'"
"I will introduce Verona to the railway and the telegraph people," resumed Blanche (wisely ignoring this disagreeable interruption). "We will get up some parties and have lots of jolly fun. Now we will go into the drawing-room, and Verona must hear Dominga sing."
As she spoke, Blanche hurried forward and opened the piano with her own hands. It was a fine instrument, which Mrs. Chandos had picked up a bargain at some sale. Candles were lit, and there was a good deal of bustle and chattering before Dominga trailed over in the new tea-gown, and took her place at the instrument with an air of a prima donna.
She played the introduction to Tosti's "Good-bye" with somewhat uncertain fingers, and in another moment the room was ringing with her voice. It was a powerful, elastic soprano, clear and strong, and ill-taught. Undoubtedly a wonderful organ, but it had a strange metallic ring—a native ring; the note of her great-grandmother, who poured forth to the gods her shrill Marathi songs. Whilst Dominga sang, her mother and three sisters sat wrapped in ecstasy. The ladies of the family were unaffectedly proud of the performance, but Mr. Chandos and Monty had disappeared out into the verandah, where they smoked together in guilty company, for Dominga's gift did not appeal to them.
"Well, you've never heard finer singing than that?" and Mrs. Chandos turned to Verona with a challenge in her eye.
"It is indeed marvellous," she assented, "and would, I think, make her fortune if it were trained."
"Trained? Why she has had lots of lessons at school, and practises often an hour a day. I suppose"—with a little sniff—"your voice has been what you call 'trained'?"
"Yes, but mine has so little compass; it is very different from Dominga's."
"But you sing, of course?" said Blanche, who was now busily doing the honours of her mother's house. "Dom, you get away from the piano"—pulling her sister by the arm—"Verona will take your place."