Realizing that her duty was now that of hostess in her own drawing-room, Miss Landon was about to break the embarrassing silence that was filling the place, but at that moment Camdel, the red-haired soprano, touched the guitar and opened up with a mirth-provoking Irish accent:—
“Arrah, Patsy! git up f’om th’ fire,
An’ guv th’ mon a sate;
Can’t ye see that it’s Misther McGuire,
Come a courtin’ yer sisther Kate?”
By the time the singers had concluded the chorus McGuire was on his feet, his face changing from red to white.
“Sit down,” said Miss Landon, blushing, but smiling in spite of herself. “I did not know you had a bard among you capable of making songs upon occasion,” she added; “please don’t disturb them.”
McGuire threw himself upon the seat and bit his lip. If only he could get hold of Jack Bowen he’d break his long back.
After what seemed an age to McGuire the song ceased.
“I think that is perfectly wonderful,” said Miss Landon enthusiastically, “and how nicely the singing sounds out there in the clear, cold night. They must have made that song since we came back from the hills; and the music, where did they get the tune? Did that funny Mr. Bowen make that too?”