“What a barbarian you are, aunt Maggie!” cried Crowdie, looking round at his mother-in-law. “You’d take the poetry out of the Nine Muses. Not that I meant anything poetical. It’s much more a sort of creepy, dreamy, undefinable sensation. Yes—perhaps you’re right after all. I shouldn’t be surprised if one of us saw a ghost to-night.”
“What will you bet?” enquired Ham, with the slow, western emphasis he could assume when he chose.
“You’re insufferable!” exclaimed Crowdie. “Fancy betting on seeing ghosts! You’re worse than aunt Maggie. The only man who understands me is Griggs. Griggs, you do understand, don’t you?”
There was something petulant and almost womanish in his tone, which struck all four men disagreeably, though perhaps none of them could or would have told why.
“Don’t talk!” answered Griggs. “When you want people to understand you, paint or sing. You only make a mess of it when you try to explain what you feel in English. You’re a good painter and you sing like an angel, but you’re a bad talker.”
“That’s said because I got the better of you in talking just now,” retorted Crowdie, who did not seem in the least annoyed.
“Oh, don’t begin sparring again, for heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Bright. “Cousin Katharine’s tired to death of hearing you two fighting. Sing something, Walter. It’s much better.”
“Oh, no!” answered Crowdie. “Oh, no! I can’t sing, thank you. I never sing at parties—as they call it.”
“You don’t call this a party, do you?” enquired Bright. “Don’t be silly. We all want to hear you. You’re not the common amateur who has to be begged and flattered and cajoled, and praised afterwards. You can sing when you choose, and we all want you to.”
“No. I’d rather not,” said the painter, with a change of tone, as though he were very much in earnest.