“I?” Mrs. Locke stared. “No.”
“Who does?” he appealed to Hildegarde.
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, I heard a woman yesterday—”
“Oh, that awful Miss Pinckney, you know, with the draggled feathers!”
“Well, go and find her and get her to sing now.”
“Sing?”
“Yes, sing. It may make just all the difference.” Cheviot was in the act of bolting back to the captain.
“She can’t sing.” Hildegarde followed him a step.