‘I am sent upon a fruitless mission,’ said Coningsby, looking at her, and catching her glance.
‘What and why?’ she replied.
‘The mission is to entreat you to do us all a great favour; and the cause of its failure will be that I am the envoy.’
‘If the favour be one to yourself, it is granted; and if you be the envoy, you need never fear failure with me.’
‘I must presume then to lead you away,’ said Coningsby, bending to the Ambassador.
‘Remember,’ said Lucretia, as they approached the instrument, ‘that I am singing to you.’
‘It is impossible ever to forget it,’ said Coningsby, leading her to the piano with great politeness, but only with great politeness.
‘Where is Mademoiselle Flora?’ she inquired.
Coningsby found La Petite crouching as it were behind some furniture, and apparently looking over some music. She looked up as he approached, and a smile stole over her countenance. ‘I am come to ask a favour,’ he said, and he named his request.
‘I will sing,’ she replied; ‘but only tell me what you like.’