"Reggy does," said Dick promptly; "he's got a voice like a nightingale."
"Bosh!" retorted Reggy, reddening under his dark skin. "Why I never had a lesson in my life."
"No, self-taught genius," said the incorrigible Dick. "Come, old man, out with it."
Thus adjured by his friend and being pressed by the doctor, Blake consented and sang "You'll remember me," that old-fashioned song which contains such a world of pathos.
A tenor voice, pure, rich and silvery as a bell, not cultured in the least, but with rare natural power and an intensity of dramatic expression. One of those sympathetic voices which find their way straight to the heart, and as Blake sang the appealing words of the song, with their haunting, pathetic tenderness, Nestley felt strangely stirred. Even the rustics, dull as they were, fell under the spell of those resonant notes, and when the last word died away like a long-drawn sigh, sat silently pondering, not daring to break the charm with applause.
"You have a great gift," said Nestley, when the singer ceased. "A wonderful voice."
Blake flushed with pleasure at this word of praise from a stranger, and Dick delighted with the eulogy of his friend's talent chimed in delightedly.
"'Tis--isn't it jolly? and he sings comic songs--give us one old chap."
Blake would have consented, particularly as the rustics seemed anxious to hear something more suited to their comprehension than the preceding ballad, but Nestley hastily intervened.
"No, no," he said quickly, unwilling to spoil his first impression of that charming voice by hearing it lowered to the level of music hall singing, "don't do that, it will spoil everything."