"It is delicious!" cries she, wickedly. "A very comedy of errors. If we could but manage some effective way of showing Marcia her mistake. Can you," with sudden inspiration, "sing?"
"I can," says Molly, calmly.
"You can. That sounds promising. I wonder you don't say 'a little,' as all young ladies do, more especially when they sing a good deal more than any one wants them to! Come here, and let me see what you mean by that uncompromising 'can.'"
Opening a small cottage piano at the other end of her pretty sitting-room, she motions Molly to the instrument.
"Play for me," Molly says, bent on doing her very best. "I can sing better standing."
"What, then?"
"This," taking up a song of Sullivan's, after a rapid survey of the pile of music lying on one side.
She sings, her lovely voice thrilling and sobbing through the room, sings with a passionate desire to prove her powers, and well succeeds. For a minute after she has finished, Cecil does not speak, and then goes into raptures, as "is her nature to."
"Oh that I had your voice!" cries she, with genuine tears in her eyes. "I would have the world at my feet. What a gift! a voice for a goddess! Molly—may I call you so?—I absolutely pity Marcia when I think of her consternation."
"She deserves it," says Molly, who feels her cousin's conduct deeply. "I will sing to-night, if you will get Marcia to ask me."