Jack stuck up some music on the stand and sat down.
He had played well at one time, in a rough fashion, and had a wonderful ear, and, quite regardless of the music, he launched into a prelude.
“Sing the song you sang the other evening, my darling,” he whispered. “I remember every note of it.”
Una obeyed instantly. Free from any spark of vanity, she knew nothing of the shyness which assails self-conscious people. Jack, with his acute ear, played a running accompaniment easily enough; it was true he had remembered every note of it.
“You nightingale,” he whispered, looking up at her, and the fervent admiration of his eyes made her heart throb.
“Now sing something yourself, Jack,” said Mrs. Davenant.
Jack thought a moment, his fingers straying over the keys, then softening his full baritone voice as much as possible, he sang—“Yes, dear, I love but thee!”
It was an old English song, one of the sweetest of the old melodies which even now have power to rouse a blase audience to enthusiasm.
Una stood behind him entranced, bewitched; he sang every word to her.
“Yes, dear, I love but thee!”