Mrs. Darrow rose to fetch the parcel. Then she proceeded to open it and read out the titles of the songs. On Hilda's face there was the blandest of smiles, masking, if the truth had but been known, the keenest of interest. She knew that Mrs. Darrow's bombshell was now about to explode. To her, as to the wily widow, this was the incident of the evening—in fact, the whole raison d'etre of it.
"I hear your voice is a contralto, Miss Crane," said the Major, admiring the contour of her head. "I am so glad; it's my favourite voice."
"Really, Major?" observed Hilda. "I should have thought you would like something more lively—to me a contralto, no matter how beautiful, is always rather doleful."
"There I can't agree with you," put in Gerald. "To my thinking the contralto is always full of pathos—it is the voice which goes straight to the heart."
"Now, you too surprise me, Mr. Arkel," replied Hilda, smiling ever so amiably. "I did not think you were so susceptible in the—what is it the doctors call it—the cardiac region?"
"I think you, of all people, should know me better than that," murmured Gerald, bending towards her.
"Nonsense; I admit no such superiority. But hush, let us hear what it is Miss Crane is going to sing to us!"
Ever suspicious at any kindness however trifling on the part of Julia, the Squire had moved up close to the piano, and was keeping a pretty close watch upon her. But Mrs. Darrow was all unconscious of his scrutiny, being too deeply absorbed in the effective lodgment of her bombshell to pay much attention to anything else.
"'The Sands of Dee,' 'The Clang of the Wooden Shoon,' 'Down the Long Avenue,'" rattled off Mrs. Darrow. Then, with the prettiest air of surprise, "Oh, and here is a comic song!"
"I think you must be mistaken," said Miriam coldly. "I do not sing comic songs."