“Lady Mary. Ah! They are about to begin.”
A fine applause greeted Miss Bargarny, who executed the overture to Semiramide quite as well as it deserved. After the clapping was over and she had obligingly given an encore, she remained at the piano, and Mr. Stewart, a young man with red hair and complexion, in kilts and pink knees, emerged from the curtains, and sang in a thundering voice several of Burns’s tenderest songs. After their final retirement the curtains were drawn apart with much dignity, and Lady Mary stepped forth; a vision, as her severest critics were forced to admit. She was in diaphanous white, with frosted flowers amidst her golden ringlets, a little crown of stars above her brow, and a scarf of silver tissue.
“All she needs is wings!” exclaimed Miss Ogilvy, and added to herself, “may she soon get them!”
Lady Mary, acknowledging the rapturous greeting with a seraphic expression and the grand air, literally floated to the harp, where nothing could have displayed to a greater advantage her long willowy figure, her long white thin arms, the drooping gold of her ringlets. As the golden music tinkled from the tips of her taper fingers—formed for the harp, which may have had somewhat to do with her choice of instrument—her ethereal loveliness swayed in unison, and, one might fancy—if not a rival—emitted a music of its own.
“She doesn’t look a day over twenty!” exclaimed Miss Ogilvy. “Who would dream that she was thirty? But those fragile creatures break all at once. When she does fade she will be even more passée than most.”
“But women know so many arts nowadays,” said Anne drily. “And she would be the last to ignore them.”
“Ah! no doubt she will hang on till she gets a husband. I never knew anyone to want one so badly.”
“Lady Mary?” asked Hunsdon wonderingly. “I had long since grown to look upon her as a confirmed old maid.”
“La! La! my lord!” Miss Ogilvy suddenly resolved upon a bold stroke. “She’s trying with all her might and main to marry your own most intimate friend.”