"And nervous," finished his host abruptly. "I have peculiar views about marriage, and I do not think you are fitted for it. Take my advice, and keep single. Come," he started to his feet before the other could reply, "let us join the ladies."
Webster was annoyed. He had fully intended there and then--since the opportunity seemed to offer itself--to ask Mr. Cass for his daughter's hand. Plunged in meditation, he did not see that the object of it was beckoning to him with her very useful fan, and Heron, taking advantage of his absorption, secured the vacant seat. Before he could recover himself, Mr. Cass appeared to carry him off to the drawing-room.
"You must play to me," he said. "Miss Brawn will accompany you; she plays well."
Jennie did, indeed, play more like a professional than an amateur; and Webster, anxious as ever to please, got his violin. The sounds of the exquisite music which he drew from the wailing strings brought everyone to the drawing-room.
Then Geoffrey Heron sang, and sang well. He chose a typical drawing-room ballad, flat and insipid. The music, of a lilting order, suited the words--Miss Jennie Brawn's--which were full of mawkish sentiment.
The song was not yet finished when Mr. Marshall suddenly rose and hurriedly left the room. His wife looked after him with an uneasy smile, and shortly afterwards followed, to find him in the winter garden.
"What is the matter?" she asked, sharply, though she knew quite well what it was that had stirred him.
"Jenner," stammered her husband, lifting up a white face. "Heron's voice reminds me of his. I have never heard him sing before."
"Nor will you again if you make such a fool of yourself. What do you mean by rushing out of the room and provoking remark? Jenner is dead and buried these twelve years."
"Yes; but think how he died," moaned her husband. "And I was so intimate with him."