She felt caressing shivers running up and down her back as she caught the unsteadiness of his voice.
"Sit down, Bob. I'm going to sing for you. I'm going to sing my favorite song."
He tossed his big shoulders impatiently, and she flung him a pouting reproof.
"Oh, well, if you don't care to hear my favorite song."
"I do care, Betty. I'm crazy to hear it, but—hello!" He paused as a pompous cough and ponderous tread resounded through the hall.
"It's the bishop," said Betty, and the words were scarcely spoken when his lordship entered, his benignant smile relieving the formidable impressiveness of his ecclesiastical coat and buckled knee breeches.
"Ah, my young friends," was his sonorous greeting as he peered among the shadowed spaces of the great room. "Ah, here you are! Quite a charming twilight picture!" He took their hands in a hearty grasp, then, turning slyly to Bob, "I don't think I need apologize for keeping you waiting."
Young Baxter gave a little self-conscious laugh, but Betty immediately became dignified.
"We were talking about—about music."
"Yes," added Bob. "You know Betty has been studying singing in Paris—she has a splendid voice."