It was a tippity-tippity little tinkling song, quite in accordance with the wiry, zither-like piano, all about “dewy twilight lingers,” and harps “touched by fairy fingers,” and appeals to some one to “meet me there, love,” and so on.
The French say we are not a polite nation. We may not be as to some little bits of outer polish, but at heart we are, and never more so than at a social gathering, when some terrible execution has taken place under the name of music. It was so here, for, moved by the feeling that the poor little woman had done her best, and would have been deeply wounded had she not been asked to sing, all warmly thanked Miss Heathery; and directly after, Christie Bayle, with his ears still burning from the effects of the performance, found himself beside the fair singer, trying to talk of King’s Castor and its surroundings.
“I would rather not ask him, mamma dear,” said Millicent at the other side of the room.
“But you had better, my dear. I know he is musical, and he might feel slighted.”
“Oh, yes, he’s a good fellow, my dear; I like him,” said the doctor bluffly. “Ask him.”
With a curious shrinking sensation that seemed somehow vaguely connected with Mr Hallam from the bank, and his eagerness earlier in the evening, Millicent crossed to where Bayle was seated, and asked him if he would sing.
“Oh, no,” he said hastily, “I have no voice!”
“But we hear that you are musical, Mr Bayle,” said Millicent in her sweet, calm way.
“Oh, yes, I am. Yes, I am a little musical.”
“Pray sing then,” she said, now that she had taken the step, forgetting the diffident feeling; “we are very simple people here, and so glad to have a fresh recruit in our narrow ranks.”