“Mr. McEwan says he can vamp them all, and it will be too delightful to have something from each of my women stars,” Constance urged. “Now I'll leave you two to arrange it, and in a few minutes I'll get every one back from the dining room,” she nodded, slipping away again.
“Cruel man, you've given me away,” Mary smiled.
“I always brag about my friends,” grinned McEwan. They went over to the piano.
“What price the Bard! Do you know this?” His fingers ran into the old air for “Sigh No More, Ladies.” She nodded.
“Yes, I like that.”
“And for a second,” he spun round on his stool, “what do you say to a duet?” His candid blue eyes twinkled at her.
“A duet!” she exclaimed in genuine surprise. “Do you sing, Mr. McEwan?”
“Once in a while,” and, soft pedal down, he played a few bars of Marzials' “My True Love Hath My Heart,” humming the words in an easy barytone.
“Oh, what fun!” exclaimed Mary. “I love that.” They tried it over, below their breaths.
The room was filling again. People began to settle down expectantly; McEwan struck his opening chords.