“I wish you sang, Mr Trethick,” she said at last.
“Do you?” he said, looking down at her troubled face.
“Yes. Do you? Will you?”
“Nature has not been very generous to me in the matter of voice. At least she has given me plenty, but the quality is coarse. I’ll try something though—with you.”
“A duet? Oh, yes!” she said eagerly. “What have we? Could you—do you like Italian?”
“Yes,” he said quietly, as he noticed how agitated she was growing, and how bravely she fought to keep it down, and preserve her composure towards her father’s guests. “Shall we try that Trovatore piece that you just turned over—Ai nostri monti.”
“Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, and there was a silence in the room as the rich harmony of the well-blended voices floated out upon the night air. For, in spite of his modest declaration, Geoffrey Trethick possessed a full deep voice, and, being a good musician, he thoroughly enjoyed his task.
“Rather hard on a baritone to set him to sing tenor, Miss Penwynn,” he said, laughing. “But I say, what a delicious voice you have!”
Rhoda glanced at him sharply, but the expression of admiration she could see was perfectly sincere, and she knew at once that he was not a man likely to flatter.
That duet gave Rhoda Penwynn time to recover herself, and she was perfectly calm by the end—a calm she managed to maintain until the guests were about to depart.