Five minutes after, Gartram’s creaking boots were heard as he came along the terrace, entered the room, went straight to the chimney-piece, tossed off the contents of the glass, and then threw himself in an easy-chair.
“There, Master Glyddyr,” he said; “you have the field to yourself, and you will not mind my having a nap.”
Claude played well, and after a little entreaty she sang an old ballad, in a sweet low voice that would have thrilled some men, but to which Glyddyr listened in an abstracted way, as if his attention was more taken up by what was going on without.
After a time the urn was brought in, and Claude was about to rise from the piano, but Glyddyr seemed to become all at once deeply interested, and begged so very earnestly that she stayed, a duet was produced, and Mary Dillon, directly after the prelude, took the first part in a voice so clear and piercing, so birdlike in its purity and strength, that for a few moments the visitor sat gazing at her in admiration.
But he soon became abstracted again, and as the final notes of the combined voices rang out, he rose with a sigh, and walked to the window, while Claude proceeded to make the tea.
“And never said ‘thank you,’” whispered Mary. “Poor young man. He is terribly in love.”
At that moment steps were heard passing down the stone pathway toward the gate.
“Doctor Asher gone to give some poor creature physic,” said Mary merrily; and Glyddyr came slowly back toward the table.
“You will take some tea, Mr Glyddyr?” said Claude.
“I? No, thanks; I rarely take it,” he replied. “I’m afraid I am rather a burden upon you two ladies, and if you will excuse me I will go and have a chat with Mr Gartram, as he is alone.”