"Oh, but we don't do that!" protested the girls in chorus.
"Some ladies does," said Mr. Hennesy sententiously. "Thot's three p'ints in favour of the masculoine moind!"
On the sofa, in the corner of the parlour, Beatrice had found Mr. Schultzsky, looking very pale and tired.
"I haf been looking for my nephew," said the old man. "I think we should go home."
"Oh, Mr. Lindsay is surrounded by admiring young ladies," answered Beatrice. "It would be a pity to spoil his good time. Beside, you must wait and have a mystery package. They are selling at ten cents each, and every one is warranted."
She brought from the kitchen a cup of tea and a slice of cake, and settled the tray cozily on the old man's knees. "They don't seem to need me in the garden, so I shall stay with you," she said. "May I sing for you?"
She seated herself at the piano, and hesitated a moment, wondering what style of song the old man might like. "Something old-fashioned, anyhow," she decided, and began in a sweet contralto voice "The Pilgrim."
"I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger,
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night:
To that country where I am going,
My Redeemer, my Redeemer is the light.
There is no sorrow,—nor any sighing,
Nor any tears there,—nor any dying:
I'm a pilgrim, and I'm a stranger,
I can tarry, I can tarry but a night."
There was the sound of a crutch on the floor, and Beatrice was amazed to find Mr. Schultzsky standing at her side, wiping his eyes on his red cotton handkerchief.