“I’m sure, Con, there couldn’t be more of a gentleman—”
Here Arthur thought himself bound to retreat, having discovered that the fair Helen, could lose her composure sometimes. Jem arrived on the Saturday evening, very much on his best behaviour, and listening to the Miss Haywards playing the pieces and singing the songs which he had most been wont to criticise. However, he gave Helen the names of some new ones, and sang himself, as he well knew how to do, contenting himself with finding fault with Freddie’s touch. Hugh did not show off the skill acquired under Signor Mattei, which, truth to tell, was not very considerable.
“I never sing,” he said, emphatically; but he sat by and watched, and when some particular old English ballads were asked for, and Jem began to wonder where they were, he checked him quietly, knowing by Arthur’s flush and quiver that they were among the books which he could not bear to see touched. Arthur looked grateful, but Jem found the book on the piano the next morning.
A slight flaw in the harmony was produced on Sunday afternoon by the discussion of a new colour, which Miss Constance Hayward declared to be vulgar, and never worn by any lady “who was very nice.”
Jem defended it as found in the old masters. It was very artistic.
“I’d rather look like a lady than like a picture,” said Miss Hayward, a little dryly.
“I quite agree with you, Miss Hayward,” said Hugh.
“Hugh’s taste is conventional usually,” said Jem, in a wicked undertone.
“I like that funny green,” said Helen, in her soft, changeless voice, as she rose to get ready for church.
“What makes you laugh so, Arthur?” said Hugh, savagely, as they remained for the purpose of taking a walk together, Arthur having a great shrinking from Sunday afternoon at Redhurst.