“No: I wish to—to look them over and plan to have some reset.”
“But are they safe?” inquired the Count again; “do you not fear thieves?”
“No, we never have such things as robbery in Merivale Park. It is a quiet, well-behaved neighborhood.”
“But you have a safe?” went on the Count; “you take at least that precaution?”
“Oh, yes, I have a safe in my boudoir. There is really no danger. Count Charlier, would you like to hear me sing? Find one of my records, Gray.”
Miss Carrington’s singing voice had been a fine one and was still fair. She sometimes amused herself by making records for her phonograph, and Gray Haviland managed the mechanical part of it.
“Which one, Lady Lucy?” he asked, as he rummaged in the record cabinet.
“Any of those pretty love songs,” and Miss Carrington glanced coyly at the Count.
“Here’s a fine one,” and Haviland placed a disk in the machine.
“Listen,” he said, smiling; “don’t miss the introduction.”