"Won't you sing?" he enquired tenderly.
But Iris was in the case of the majority of those of her sex known to sing. She had studied for some time, reported ecstatic opinions of her voice, its power and its quality, possessed a large quantity of music, and had never been heard to utter a note.
"The Signora won't hear of my trying my voice yet," said Iris, in the accustomed formula of these carefully sheltered nightingales. "She thinks it may take eight or ten years to develop it, and then I might even think of Grand Opera. It seems too quaint, doesn't it?"
This last tribute to modesty appearing to require no reply, Mr. Garrett turned to Miss Marchrose.
"I fancy from your speaking voice that you can sing," he said kindly. "We musicians are not over-critical, as I'm sure Iris will tell you, and I'm sure it would be delightful to hear you."
Miss Marchrose looked at her host.
"Do," he said.
He and Julian listened to her, while Iris and Mr. Garrett retired to a distant sofa and conversed in undertones, and Lady Rossiter put on one of her kindest expressions.
Miss Marchrose had chosen the only old-fashioned volume from amongst Iris's extremely modern selection, and she sang "Annie Laurie" and "Jock o' Hazeldean." Her voice had the indescribable quality of pathos that is sometimes heard in Irish voices, and was fairly well trained, though it was quite evident that no cherishing Signora had ever had the charge of it. It was not a beautiful voice, but every note within its small compass was exceedingly sweet.
"Thanks—thanks so much," said Mr. Garrett from his sofa. "We Kelts have a very soft corner for the Songs of Hame. Won't you try 'Loch Lomond'?"