“Tom is so like Betsy, there is no danger of his forgetting that she is beautiful,” said Polly.
Tom gave a little frown, then a little laugh. His laugh was just as sweet as Betsy’s: both suggested a campanile.
“You have made her a great singer, I hear, sir,” he remarked, when he had kissed her again—this time on the hand.
“She was born a great singer: I have only made her a great artist,” said the father. Then noticing her frown, he cried in quite another tone: “But how is’t with you, my fine fellow? Have you proved yourself to be a genius or only an artist?”
“Ah, you remember how I replied to the bishop who had heard Betsy sing, and thought it only civil to inquire if I was musical also: ‘Yes, sir, we are all geniuses’?”
“It has become the household jest,” said Polly. “But my own belief is, that mother is the only genius among us; you shall taste one of her pies before you are an hour older. If you say that you tasted a better one in all Italy, you will prove yourself no judge of cookery.”
“I should eat that pie even if it should contain not four-and-twenty blackbirds, but as many nightingales—or linnets. Ah, you remember, Betsy, how the name ‘Miss Linnet’ remained with you? Who was it that first called you Miss Linnet?”
“That were a question for the Society of Antiquaries,” said Betsy, “and the bird we are all thinking of is a pie. Hurry to your room, Tom, or I vow there will not be left so much as a clove for you. You knew Polly’s appetite; well, it has improved to the extent of an octave and a half since.”
“Corpo di Bacco! I have no inclination to play second fiddle to an appetite of such compass!” cried Tom, hurrying from the room.
“I sing as Miss Cormorant in the bills when Betsy appears as Miss Linnet,” cried Polly from the lobby.