"Sing us something, darling," she says.
And Lilian, rising, trails her soft skirts after her across the room, and, sitting down at the piano, commences "Barbara Allen," sweetly, gravely, tenderly, as is her wont.
Guy's gaze is following her. The pure though piquante face, the golden hair, the rich old-fashioned texture of the gown, all combine to make a lovely picture lovelier. The words of the song make his heart throb, and bring to life a certain memory of earlier days, when on the top of a high wall he first heard her singing it.
Pathetically, softly, she sings it, without affectation or pretense of any kind, and, having finished, still lets her fingers wander idly over the notes (drawing from them delicate minor harmonies that sadden the listener), whilst the others applaud.
Guy alone being silent, she glances at him presently with a smile full of kindliness, that claims and obtains an answering smile in return.
"Have I ever seen that gown on you before?" he asks, after a pause.
"No. This dress is without doubt an eminent success, as everybody admires it. No; you never saw it before. Do you like it?"
"More than I can say. Lilian, you have formed your opinion of your cousin, and—you like him?"
"Very much, indeed. He is handsome, debonnaire, all that may be desired, and—he quite likes Taffy."