Georgie laughs.
"Well, at least she shall listen to me once more," she says, gayly.
Lady Patricia is not the only one enthralled by the beautiful singer. Dorian Branscombe has never once removed his eyes from her face: he is as one bewitched, and, even at this early moment, wonders vaguely within himself what can be the meaning of the strange pleasure, that is so near akin to pain, that is tugging at his heart-strings.
Lord Alfred, too, is plainly impressed, and stares at the pretty creature with the black gown and the snowy arms, until speech becomes a necessity.
"Well, I never in all my life," he begins, emphatically, and then stops. "Who is she, Branscombe?"
"Don't know, I'm sure," says Branscombe, rather shortly. What right has Hort—what right has any fellow—to see beauty in her, except himself? The words of her song are still running in his ears,—"My love, my pearl!" How well they suit her! What a little baby face she has, so pure and sweet! yet how full of feeling!
"What's her name?" asks Lord Alfred, nothing daunted.
"I have quite forgotten," returns Branscombe, even more coldly. His second answer hardly tallies with his first; but of this he is quite oblivious.
Lord Alfred raises his brows. "She has a magnificent voice, and is very beautiful," he says, evenly. "Yet—do you know? she reminds me somewhat of Harriet."
Harriet is a third and a favorite sister of Lord Alfred's,—a very estimable young woman, much given to the reformation of drunkards, who, though rather deficient in nose, makes up for it in prodigality of mouth.