And merrily we will sing.
Then turn to me, my own love;
I prythee, love, turn to me,
For thou art the only one, love,
that art adored by me.”
The voice ceased, and the music. A sort of universal sigh seemed to breathe from the hearts of the listeners. It was like a sigh of waking. The girl wiped her eyes, and sniffed, and laughed.
“Well, what next?” she said defiantly.
Chesterfield, the least impressible of the group, took a furious step forward.
“That mask,” he said hoarsely, “that mask!” and without the least demur she whipped it from her face, and stood saucily before them. He turned on his wife.
“You see, madam? Your friend!”