“I am satisfied. You are worthy of Gray Leighton’s tutelage. I will prove my words soon. Meanwhile—hush, child, do not give way now,” her features were quivering as she read the enthusiasm in the strong, intellectual face looking down at her so kindly. With a great effort she forced down her emotion and murmured, brokenly, “How can I thank you?”
“By coming back with me and going through it again before Mrs. Carroll’s guests. You can—will you? You can trust yourself?”
“Can I, Mr. Keene? For God’s sake think—can I?” she asked, looking at him with all the anxious longing of a great soul in her beautiful eyes.
He gave her his arm with a reassuring little nod, and they entered the drawing-room.
Keene took his hostess aside and explained in a few words. Then, turning to Muriel, led her to the centre of the room, and simply announced the scene.
She did not hesitate now.
Clear as a bell her laughter rang out, her gestures full of quaint witchery, void of ordinary theatrical assumption, her manner that of a perfectly-bred lady as she alternately yielded and taunted Benedict.
There was a storm of applause as they finished, from every one of either sex.
Again and again Keene was pressed to give an encore, but he knew that the girl had been taxed to the uttermost for that night, and he let her go.
Old Losti went up to him and muttered a few significant words—