“Of course you sing, Miss Morland?”
“No, Sir Sydney; I abhor all pretension; and as I knew I could never sing like a professor, I never attempted it.”
“Pardon me, but I think you are wrong. There can be no necessity for private performers to equal professors; indeed I would banish all Italian bravuras from private rooms.”
“You will think my brother a sad Goth, Miss Morland; but he prefers a simple English ballad to anything else.”
“I admire his taste; but you surely do not think ballad-singing an easily-accomplished matter?”
“Easy enough for any one with natural feeling,” replied Sir Sydney, somewhat hastily, “and with boldness sufficient to express it. I would rather hear ‘Go, forget me,’ as I have heard it, than the finest Italian scena by a prima donna.”
“I am delighted, Sir Sydney, that we have it in our power to afford you that gratification,” energetically interposed Miss Wilhelmina. The baronet made her a graceful bow, looking at his sister, however, with eyes that plainly said, “Save me from this.”
“Laura!” (Sir Sydney actually started, but recovered himself so rapidly that the sudden flushing of his brow was unremarked even by Isabel.) “Dear me, where can the dear girl have hid herself? I assure you, Sir Sydney, though she sings very seldom, she is considered first-rate in English ballads,” and away gracefully glided Miss Wilhelmina in search of her.
“Who is this ‘dear girl,’ Miss Morland? Can she really sing that song? I would rather she chose any other,” said Sir Sydney in a tone almost of irritation.
Isabel looked up with one of her most mischievous smiles, which recalled him instantly to his artificial self; but before he could rally sufficiently to speak again, Miss Wilhelmina’s voice, in its most dulcet tones of encouragement, was close beside him.