“No.”
“I hoped perhaps you had, because you’ve not smoked since dinner. We shan’t mind if you care to.”
“No, thanks.”
There was silence again, except for the creaking of the rocking-chair; then a low, clear whistle, singularly musical, was heard softly rendering an old air from “Fra Diavolo.” The creaking stopped.
“Is that you, George?” Fanny asked abruptly.
“Is that me what?”
“Whistling ‘On Yonder Rock Reclining’?”
“It’s I,” said Isabel.
“Oh,” Fanny said dryly.
“Does it disturb you?”