For a moment Luttrell disbelieves his senses. Then a mist rises before him, a choking sensation comes into his throat. Laying his hand upon the back of the chair nearest him, he fortunately manages to retain his composure, while heart, and mind, and eyes, are centred on Molly Bawn.
An instantaneous hush falls upon the assembly; the very fans drop silently into their owners' laps; not a whisper can be heard. The opening chords are played by some one, and then Molly begins to sing.
It is some new, exquisite rendering of Kingsley's exquisite words she has chosen:
"Oh, that we two were maying!—"
and she sings it with all the pathos, the genius, of which she is capable.
She has no thought for all the gay crowd that stays entranced upon her tones. She looks far above them, her serene face—pale, but full of gentle self-possession—more sweet than any poem. She is singing with all her heart for her beloved,—for Letitia, and Lovat, and the children, and John in heaven.
A passionate longing to be near her—to touch her—to speak—to be answered back again—seizes Luttrell. He takes in hungrily all the minutiæ of her clothing, her manner, her expression. He sees the soft, gleaming bunches of snow-drops at her bosom and in her hair. Her hands, lightly crossed before her, are innocent of rings. Her simple black gown of some clinging, transparent material—barely opened at the neck—makes even more fair the milk-white of her throat (that is scarcely less white than the snowy flowers).
Her hair is drawn back into its old loose knot behind, in the simple style that suits her. She has a tiny band of black velvet round her neck. How fair she is,—how sweet, yet full of a tender melancholy! He is glad in his heart for that little pensive shade, and thinks, though more fragile, she never looked so lovely in her life.
She has commenced the last verse:
"Oh, that we two lay sleeping