“Primrose is getting to be a horrid little forward thing,” observed Gillian to her aunt.
“A child of the present,” said Miss Mohun. “Infant England! But her suggestion seems to be highly opportune.”
“I don’t believe he can sing,” growled Gillian, “and it will be just an excuse for his hanging about here.”
There was something in Gillian’s “savagery” which gave Aunt Jane a curious impression, but she kept it to herself.
Late in the evening Lance appeared in his sister’s drawing-room with—
“I have more hopes of it. I did not think it was feasible when Anna wrote to me, but I see my way better now. That parson, Flight, has a good notion of drilling, and that recruit of the little Merrifield girl, Captain Armytage, is worth having.”
“If he roared like a sucking dove we would have him, only to silence that awful boatswain,” said Gerald; “and as to the little Cigaretta, she is a born prima donna.”
“Your Miranda? Are you content with her?” said his aunt.
“She is to the manner born. Lovely voice, acts like a dragon, and has an instinct how to stand and how to hold her hands.”
“Coming in drolly with her prim dress and bearing. Though she was dreadfully frightened,” said Lance. “Being half-foreign accounts for something, I suppose, but it is odd how she reminds me of some one. No doubt it is of some singer at a concert. What did they say was her name?”