“Lance! I thought I heard your voice.”
“Yes, here’s a pretty kettle of fish! Our Miranda has absconded, poor child. Happy thing you brought down Francie; nobody else could take the part at such short notice. You must pacify Marilda, silence scruples, say it is her duty to Church, country, and family. Can’t stop!”
“Lance, explain—do! Music-mad as usual!” cried Sir Ferdinand, pursuing him down-stairs in despair.
“I must be music-mad; the only chance of keeping sane just now. There’s an awful predicament! Can’t go into it now, but you shall hear all when this is over.”
Wherewith Lance was lost to view, and presently burst into St. Kenelm’s Vicarage, to the relief of poor Mr. Flight, who had tried to solace himself with those three words as best he might.
“All right. My niece, Franceska Vanderkist, who took the part before, and who has a very good soprano, will do it better as to voice, if not so well as to acting, as the Little Butterfly.”
“Is she here?”
“Yes, by good luck. I shall have her up to the pavilion to rehearse her for the afternoon.”
“Mr. Underwood, no words can say what we owe you. You are the saving of our Church education.”
Lance laughed at the magniloquent thanks, and asked how the intimation had been received.