"Well, Sir Guy?"
And he answers:
"I am vanquished, utterly convinced. I confess I now like French songs as well as any others."
"I like them ten times better," says Archibald, impulsively, "when they are sung by you. There is a verve, a gayety about them that other songs lack. Have you any more? Do you know any of Gounod's? I like them, though they are of a different style."
"They are rather beyond me," says Lilian, laughing. "But hear this: it is one of Beranger's, very simply set, but I think pretty."
This time she sings to him,—unmistakably,—a soft little Norman love-song, full of grace and tenderest entreaty, bestowing upon him all the beguiling smiles she had a moment since given exclusively to her guardian, until at length Sir Guy, muttering "coquette" to his own heart, turns aside, leaving Chesney master of the field.
Lilian, turning from her animated discussion with Archibald, follows his departing footsteps with her eyes, in which lies a faintly malicious smile; an expression full of suppressed enjoyment curves her lips; she is evidently satisfied at his abrupt retreat, and continues her interrupted conversation with her cousin in still more joyous tones. Perhaps this is how she means to fulfill her mysterious threat of "showing" Sir Guy.