The curtain went up, then, and he settled himself blissfully to fresh criticism.
“Now, did you ever—! I ask you—did you? Is it paint or mortar, I should like to know? And why white powder on a chin receding at least 45 degrees,—not to speak of ruddy rouge on a nose that certainly shouldn’t be encouraged? Oh, of course Verity is quite charming, but I’m not altogether sure that it’s quite the thing to look as stage-finished as all that. Too suggestive of our new peerage, don’t you think? The singing? Oh, fair, yes, fair. A little unsteady, perhaps, and a shade of difference in opinion as to—— Surely there must be something wrong?”
There was certainly something wrong, and everybody in the room was beginning to realise what it was. Verity had grasped it from the start of the opening chorus, for Billy-boy had roused suddenly from his state of somnolence and dashed spiritedly into his part. She could feel him lurching against the piano as he put on pace with each verse. At first there was merely an added swing to the usual rather tame opening, but as the speed grew, and Verity’s fingers began to race along the keys, the choir took fright. The last verse found everybody in a different bar, and Billy finished first in a triumphant bellow, topping a crashing discord that made Savaury jump clean out of his seat.
Verity hurriedly dragged out the next song, trying to look as if nothing had happened, and beckoned to Harry Lauder to begin, praying that her fallen star might recover during the next item, but the soloist had barely got to his feet before the black-haired giant was in front of him, pushing him aside.
“Now don’t you get shoving where you’re not wanted, Tom m’lad!” he reproved him genially, barring his progress with a piqué arm. “My song this—‘Honish’—you know ‘Honish,’ Tom m’lad? Men not shinging all to sit down!”
He waved his arm pleasantly, and Harry-Lauder-Tom-m’lad sat down instantly, not on his pedestal, unfortunately, but very sharply and suddenly on the floor; while Verity, afraid to interfere, yet still more afraid to let him continue, tried to order the rebel back to his place.
“Your turn next after this, Billy!” she observed, with as Pélissier-like ease as she could command. “It’s ‘Queen amang the Heather’ now, you know. Give Mr. Bell a chance!”
But alas! Billy was beyond even her influence. He staggered to the front of the stage and treated the scandalised audience to a confidential wink.
“Goin’ to shing ‘Honish’!” he announced sweetly. “Honish my girl, as everybody knowsh. Everybody got a honish, like me,—everybody in thish room!” Here he fixed a pleasantly meaning gaze on Savaury, who went pink all over and waved his glasses, and would have stood up and argued the point had not Deb on one side, and Petronilla on the other, held him firmly in his seat.
Billy-boy set his feet squarely apart, and contrived to look over his shoulder at the piano without actually taking a header into Mrs. Andrews’ lap.