She sits down, and sings from memory that very sweet and dear old song,—sings it with all the girlish tenderness of which she is capable, in a soft, sweet voice, that saddens as fully as it charms,—a voice that would certainly never raise storms of applause, but is perfect in its truthfulness and exquisite in its youth and freshness.
"My dear child, you sing rarely well," says Lady Chetwoode, while Guy has drawn near, unconsciously to himself, and is standing at a little distance behind her. How many more witcheries has this little tormenting siren laid up in store for his undoing? "It reminds me of long ago," says auntie, with a sigh for the gay hours gone: "once I sang that song myself. Do you know any Scotch airs, Lilian? I am so fond of them."
Whereupon Lilian sings "Comin' thro' the Rye" and "Caller Herrin'," which latter brings tears into Lady Chetwoode's eyes. Altogether, by the time the first dressing-bell rings, she feels she has made a decided success, and is so far elated by the thought that she actually condescends to forego her ill-temper for this occasion only, and bestows so gracious a smile and speech upon her hapless guardian as sends that ill-used young man to his room in radiant spirits.
CHAPTER IX.
"So young, and so untender."—King Lear.
"I wonder why on earth it is some people cannot choose proper hours in which to travel," says Cyril, testily. "The idea of electing—(not any more, thank you)—to arrive at ten o'clock at night at any respectable house is barely decent."
"Yes, I wish she had named any other hour," says Lady Chetwoode. "It is rather a nuisance Guy having to go to the station so late."
"Dear Florence is so romantic," remarks Cyril: "let us hope for her sake there will be a moon."