Methodical Florence. Unalterable, admirable, tiresome Florence!
As Sir Guy speaks, Lilian being in one of her capricious moods, which seem reserved alone for her guardian, half turns her head toward him, looking at him out of two great unfriendly eyes, says:
"Is not that yours?" pointing to a cup that she has purposely placed at a considerable distance from her, so that she may have a decent excuse for not offering it to him with her own hands.
"Thank you," Chetwoode says, calmly, taking it without betraying the chagrin he is foolish enough to feel, but he is very careful not to trouble her a second time. It is evident to him that, for some reason or reasons unknown, he is in high disgrace with his ward; though long ago he has given up trying to discover just cause for her constant displays of temper.
Lady Chetwoode is knitting industriously. Already the heel is turned, and she is on the fair road to make a most successful and rapid finish. Humanly speaking, there is no possible doubt about old James Murland being in possession of the socks to-morrow evening. As she knits she speaks in the low dreamy tone that always seems to me to accompany the click of the needles.
"Florence sings very nicely," she says; "in the evening it was pleasant to hear her voice. Dear me, how it does rain, to be sure! one would think it never meant to cease. Yes, I am very fond of singing."
"I have rather a nice little voice," says Miss Chesney, composedly,—"at least"—with a sudden and most unlooked-for accession of modesty—"they used to say so at home. Shall I sing something for you, auntie? I should like to very much, if it would give you any pleasure."
"Indeed it would, my dear. I had no idea you were musical."
"I don't suppose I can sing as well as Florence,"—apologetically,—"but I will try the 'Banks of Allan Water,' and then you will be able to judge for yourself."