“I promise to be a good, obedient, little old man in the future,” I replied; and was rewarded for my docility with a fourth kiss—this time imprinted among the wrinkles on my forehead.
The two wise women went off downstairs.
I joined them as soon as I had got into dry clothing; and we sat down to luncheon—the young sculptor enlivening and entertaining us with a flow of droll, high-spirited talk. He and Miriam got on famously together—chatting, laughing, exchanging bits of repartee, with the vivacity that was becoming to their age. Josephine and I hearkened and enjoyed. At least, I enjoyed; and I had no reason to suppose that my sister did not. Luncheon concluded, we adjourned to the drawing-room. There, observing the piano, Fairchild demanded of Miriam whether she played. She answered, “Yes.” (We had procured for her the best musical instruction to be had in Adironda; and she had mastered the instrument with a facility which proved that Louise Massarte must have been a talented pianist.) Miriam answered, “Yes,” and then Fairchild said—
“Will you not be persuaded to play for us now?”
She played one of Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsodies, and then something of Chopin's, and then something of Schumann's; after which, leaving the piano, she said to Fairchild—
“Now you must sing for us.”
“Why, how do you know I can sing?” cried he.
“It is evident from the timbre of your voice,” she answered.
“You must not be too sure of that,” he protested. “The speaking voice and the singing voice are two very different things.”
“Nevertheless, please sing for us,” she repeated.