“Is that MacPhail?” she said.
“Yes, my lady,” answered Malcolm, and bounded to his feet
“What were you singing?”
“You could hardly call it singing, my lady. We should call it crooning in Scotland.”
“Croon it again then.”
“I couldn’t, my lady. It’s gone.”
“You don’t mean to pretend that you were extemporising?”
“I was crooning what came—like the birds, my lady. I couldn’t have done it if I had thought anyone was near.”
Then, half ashamed, and anxious to turn the talk from the threshold of his secret chamber, he said, “Did you ever see a lovelier night, ladies?”
“Not often, certainly,” answered Clementina.