“Well, Nelly,” said Marmaduke: “is there any piano left?”
“Not much,” she replied, with a sullen laugh. “I never played worse in my life.”
“Wrong notes? or deficiency in the sacred fire?”
“Both.”
“I believe your song comes next,” said the clergyman to Conolly, who had been standing apart, listening to Miss McQuinch’s performance.
“Who is to accompany me, sir?”
“Oh—ah—Miss McQuinch will, I am sure,” replied the Rev. Mr. Lind, smiling nervously. Conolly looked grave. The young lady referred to closed her lips; frowned; said nothing. Marmaduke chuckled.
“Perhaps you would rather play your own accompaniment,” said the clergyman, weakly.
Conolly shook his head decisively, and said, “I can do only one thing at a time, sir.”
“Oh, they are not very critical: they are only workmen,” said the clergyman, and then reddened deeply as Marmaduke gave him a very perceptible nudge.