“Would to Heaven she did!” murmured I to myself. “Who is to play it for me?” asked Coleman. “Well, my love, I'll do my best,” replied his mother; “and, if I should make a few mistakes, it will only sound all the funnier, you know.”
This being quite unanswerable, the piano was opened, and, after Mrs. Coleman's spectacles had been hunted for in all probable places, and discovered at last in the coal-scuttle, a phenomenon which that good lady accounted for on the score of “John's having flurried her so when he brought in tea”; and when, moreover, she had been with difficulty prevailed on to allow the music-book to remain the right way upwards, the song was commenced.
As Freddy had a good tenor voice, and sang the Italian buffa song with much humour, the performance proved highly successful, although Mrs. Coleman was as good as her word in introducing some original and decidedly “funny” chords into the accompaniment, which would have greatly discomposed the composer, if he had by any chance overheard them.
“I did not know that you were such an accomplished performer, Freddy,” observed I; “you are quite an universal genius.”
“Oh, the song was capital!” said Miss Saville, “and Mr. Coleman sang it with so much spirit.”
“Really,” returned Freddy, with a low bow, “you do me proud, as brother Jonathan says; I am actually— that is, positively—”
“My dear Freddy,” interrupted Mrs. Coleman, “I wish you would go and fetch Lucy's music; I'm sure Miss Saville can sing some of her songs; it's—let me see—yes, it's either downstairs in the study, or in the boudoir, or in the little room at the top of the house, or, if it isn't, you had better ask Susan about it.”
“Perhaps the shortest way will be to consult Susan at once,” replied Coleman, as he turned to leave the room.
“I presume you prefer buffa songs to music of a more pathetic character?” inquired I, addressing Miss Saville.
“You judge from my having praised the one we have just heard, I suppose?”