Mrs. Sylvestre recovered herself at once. She sat up, smiling a little. There were no disfiguring traces of her emotion on her fair face.
"Thank you," she answered; "but I do not like it myself so much, and I have not done it before for a long time."
It was, perhaps, because Mr. Arbuthnot presented himself as an entirely safe topic, with no tendency whatever to develop the sensibilities, that she chose him as the subject of her next remarks.
"I do not see much change in your friend," she observed.
"If you mean Laurence," Bertha replied, "I dare say not. He does not allow things to happen to him. He knows better."
"And he has done nothing whatever during the last seven years?"
"He has been to a great many parties," said Bertha, "and he has read a book or so, and sung several songs."
"I hope he has sung them well," was her friend's comment.
"It always depends upon his mood," Bertha returned; "but there have been times when he has sung them very well indeed."
"It can scarcely have been a great tax to have done it occasionally," said Mrs. Sylvestre; "but I should always be rather inclined to think it was the result of chance, and not effort. Still"—with a sudden conscientious scruple brought about by her recollection of the fact that these marks of disapproval had not expressed themselves in her manner earlier in the day—"still he is very agreeable, one cannot deny that."