“Yes, my friend—thanks to you and your sainted mother.”
This, uttered in a voice which, under the healing influence of music, seemed to have regained some of its rich melody, was too much for our cynic, and he bustled off to hide his emotion, and invited the musicians to lunch.
All the servants had been listening on the stairs, and the hospitable old butler plied the boys with sparkling Moselle, which, being himself reared on mighty Port; he thought a light and playful wine—just the thing for women and children. So after luncheon they sung rather wild, and the Klosking told Vizard, dryly, that would do for the present.
Then he ordered the carriage for them, and asked Mademoiselle Klosking when she would like them again.
“When can I?” she inquired, rather timidly.
“Every day, if you like—Sundays and all.”
“I must be content with every other day.”
Vizard said he would arrange it so, and was leaving her; but she begged him to stay a moment.
“She would be safer here,” said she, very gravely.
Vizard was taken aback by the suddenness of this return to a topic he was simple enough to think she had abandoned. However, he said, “She is safe enough. I have taken care of that, you may be sure.”