“Do you think if I were to knock——?” he began, summoning his determination, but was cut short by a fresh star within, swimming soothingly into his ken with—“Honey, there’ll be dancin’ in the sky!”
There was no peremptory checking, this time, no request for “dash,” no insulting recommendations as to quavers. The accompaniment murmured tenderly beneath the pure, easy tenor, and the parson jumped round with an unspoken question on his lips, to which Larry nodded a solemn assent.
“That’s so,—but it’s no use disturbin’ yourself, old man. It’s Billy-boy Blackburn, right enough, and can’t he just sing, bless his dear, innocent little heart! Sounds like somethin’ in a surplice with wings, doesn’t he? An’ now he’s dancin’,—you can hear the old Nanki-Poo joinin’ in!”
“I’m going to speak to Miss Cantacute!” Grant announced sternly, but Larry sprang up and grabbed him.
“Not on your life!” he said anxiously. “I’m Verity’s watch-dog, an’ it’s my job to see you don’t go bargin’ in to worry her. What’s the use of excitin’ yourself, anyhow? Tisn’t what I was brought up to, either, if it comes to that, but perhaps we’re a bit old-fashioned, an’ ought to keep movin’. He can dance, too, dear old thing! He won’t smash anythin’. An’ Verity likes it.”
“She’s no business to like it!” Grant snapped angrily, opening the door in spite of him. “Blackburn’s a wastrel,—a real outsider—and Miss Cantacute ought not to have anything to do with him. She’s too young and—and too pretty!” he finished defiantly. “And if you’re engaged to her, as you seem to think other people think you think you are, you shouldn’t have allowed it!”
Larruppin’ Lyndesay crimsoned indignantly.
“D’you think I’d have him on the same planet as my girl if I could help it?” he asked hotly. “Don’t I know Billy-boy Blackburn’s winnin’ character as well as you an’ everybody else in the parish? But if you imagine it’s any use sayin’ ‘no’ when Verity says ‘yes,’ you’re labourin’ under a very highly-coloured delusion! You’ll get no good by breakin’ in an’ makin’ yourself disliked, young feller-me-lad, and—oh, very well, go to blazes! I don’t care!”
Verity did not see the black figure at first as she bent earnestly over the keys, looking up now and then to smile approval at the performer, and joining heartily in the refrain.
“So the minutes slip away: