“True, Mrs. Leith Fairfax. But the heart is deceitful above all things and des—at least I should say—er. That is, you will admit that the finest perception may err in its estimate of the inscrutable work of the Almighty.”
“Doubtless. But really, Mr. Lind, human beings are so shallow! I assure you there is nothing at all inscrutable about them to a trained analyst of character. It may be a gift, perhaps; but people’s minds are to me only little machines made up of superficial motives.”
“I say,” said the young gentleman with the banjo, interrupting them: “have you got a copy of ‘Rose softly blooming’ there?”
“I!” said Mrs. Fairfax. “No, certainly not.”
“Then it’s all up with the concert. We have forgotten Marian’s music; and there is nothing for Nelly—I beg pardon, I mean Miss McQuinch—to play from. She is above playing by ear.”
“I cannot play by ear,” said the restless young lady, angrily.
“If you will sing ‘Coal black Rose’ instead, Marian, I can accompany you on the banjo, and back you up in the chorus. The Wandsworthers—if they survive the concertinas—will applaud the change as one man.”
“It is so unkind to joke about it,” said the beautiful young lady. “What shall I do? If somebody will vamp an accompaniment, I can get on very well without any music. But if I try to play for myself I shall break down.”
Conolly here stepped aside, and beckoned to the clergyman.
“That young man wants to speak to you,” whispered Mrs. Fairfax.