When Mrs. Tregaskis had reiterated several times in rousing tones that here was a health unto His Majesty, with a Fal-lal-lal-lal lah la, Hazel said:
“Please, will you play the one I like out of that book?”
“I thought you liked them all,” her parent replied, not without a hint of amused resentment. “Which do you mean?”
“King Charles.”
“Oh! ‘Farewell Manchester.’ Very well, darling, and then you must pop off upstairs.”
The song she played was much slower and quieter than the others, and she did not sing it. Neither Rosamund nor Frances had ever heard it before, but the infinite sadness of the simple melody made its instant appeal to a sensitiveness which was singularly developed in both.
Frances cried a little quite silently with her face pressed against her sister’s arm, and Rosamund clenched her hands together and set her teeth.
When Mrs. Tregaskis closed the piano and came towards them, Rosamund said: “Thank you very much, Cousin Bertha.”
It seemed to her that she had been saying just that, again and again, for days.
“Call me ‘Cousin Bertie,’ darling. I declare I shall fine the next person who says that dreadful ‘Cousin Bertha.’ Such a prim, horrid name, I always think. Besides, I only know myself as Bertie. Do you know the people down here still call me Miss Bertie. Don’t they, Hazel?”