Dick led the way in and out among the clumps of shrubs that dotted the soft lawn till the house was reached, and the lieutenant yielded to the stronger will, following with his flute in his hand.
“Which is her window, sir?” whispered Dick.
“That one,” replied the lieutenant, feebly, as they stood there in the darkness, with the stars glimmering overhead and the sweet fragrance of the dewy flowers rising all around.
“Then one—two—three—four” whispered Dick. “Off!”
“He regularly makes me,” muttered the lieutenant, raising the flute to his lips, and the sweet, soft sounds floated out upon the night breeze, the pupil playing far better than Dick had anticipated, and keeping well up through the first verse, evidently encouraged by the successful issue of his lessons, and also by the fact that there came a sharp snap overhead, followed by the peculiar squeaking, grating sound of a window-sash being raised, while, dimly seen above, there was a figure in white.
That second verse rang out with its message of flowers committed to the flowing river more and more sweetly than before, though it was not really the lieutenant’s fault, for Dick kept on throwing out a few clear notes—additional to his part—when some of his companion’s threatened to die away, and these grace notes came in with such delicious, florid eccentricity that a hearer would have taken them for intentional variations cleverly composed by a good musician.
On the whole, then, the performance was as creditable as it was charming; and the second verse ended.
“A bar’s rest, and then once more,” whispered Dick. “One—two—three—four.”
Pat! scatter, and a feeble groan!
Then a voice from the open window—a peculiarly clarionetty harsh voice, such as could only come from a very elderly lady’s throat—