“I cannot sing,” he replied with boyish petulance. “It was absurd to attempt it. I have only made myself ridiculous.”
“Pray do not say that,” said Millicent kindly. “You give me pain. I feel as if it is my fault, and that I have spoiled your evening.”
“I—I have had no practice,” he faltered.
“But you love music. You have a good voice. You must come and try over a few songs and duets with me.”
He looked at her half-wonderingly, and then moved by perhaps a youthful but natural desire to redeem himself, he said hastily:
“I can—play a little—the flute.”
“But you have not brought it?”
“Yes,” he said hastily. “Will you play an accompaniment? Anything, say one of Henry Bishop’s songs or duets.”
Millicent sighed, for she felt regret, but she concealed her chagrin, and said quietly, “Certainly, Mr Bayle;” and they walked together to the piano.
“Bravo!” cried Sir Gordon. “No one need be told that Mr Bayle is an Englishman.”