"Did you study either, Miss Challoner?" asked Nestley, who seemed rather annoyed at the impression Beaumont had made.
"A little of both," she answered. "I was educated in Munich, but I'm afraid my learning was rather desultory--I sing a little--paint a little--and do both badly."
"That would be impossible," said Nestley desirous of paying a compliment, but Una frowned at the remark.
"Don't, please," she said coldly, "I dislike insincerity."
Nestley reddened a little at the tone of her voice and the obvious rebuke, on seeing which Una held out her hand to him with a charming smile.
"You must not mind what I say, Dr. Nestley," she observed, bending forward, "I'm afraid I'm dreadfully rude."
"And wonderfully charming," thought Beaumont, who, however, kept his opinion to himself, warned by the fate of his friend.
The young doctor, meanwhile, had hastily assured Una that he did not mind her severity, in fact rather liked it, and would doubtless in all sincerity have committed himself again only that Blake commenced to sing "Come, Marguerite come," from Sullivan's "Martyr of Antioch," and they all listened attentively.
Cecilia played the graceful accompaniment of arpeggi lightly, while above this constant sweep of dissevered chords, rising and falling with the voice, the high, penetrating notes of the singer flowed smoothly onward and, as the organist played softly, the full purity of the voice could be heard with marvellous effect. Owing to want of training, Blake's voice lacked in a great measure the power to give a perfect rendering to the melody, but the richness and mellowness of his notes were undeniable.
When he had finished Beaumont's face betrayed the pleasure he felt, and Una, who was watching him closely, asked his opinion.