“We must make them sing, Nelligan,” said Repton, gayly. “They'll vanquish us in these tilting-matches of word-fence.—Now, Miss Henderson, something very plaintive and very sentimental, to suit the tenderness of a feeling heart.”
“I'll sing for you with pleasure,” said Kate. “Will this suit you?” And with a short prelude she sang one of those brilliant little snatches of Venetian melody which seem like the outburst of a sudden inspiration,—wild, joyous, floating as they are,—wherein such is the expression that sounds usurp the place of language, and the mind is carried away by a dreamy fascination impossible to resist.
“How often have I heard that on the Lido!” said Mas-singbred, entering the room hastily; “and what a glorious thing it is!”
“Then you know this?” said Kate, running her fingers over the notes, and warbling out another of the popular airs of the same class.
“The last time I heard that,” said Jack, musingly, “was one night when returning home from a late party, along the Grand Canal at Venice. There is a single word at the end of each verse which should be uttered by a second voice. Just as I passed beneath a brilliantly lighted salon, the sounds of this melody came floating forth, and as the stanza finished, I supplied the 'refrain.'”
“You?” cried Kate, eagerly.
“Yes; but why do you ask?”
“Do you remember the exact spot?” said she, not heeding his question.
“As well as though I were there only yesterday.”
“Shall I tell you where it was?” He waited, and she went on: “It was under the balcony of the Mocenigo Palace.”