Seymour Delafield now laughed without any affectation—and exchanging a look of perfect consciousness of each other's meaning, they separated, as the preparations for the business of the evening were about to commence. For a short time there was a confusion of sounds that perfectly justified the absence of Miss Henly, when the music began in earnest. Within half an hour, Mr. Delafield, who had suffered himself to be drawn to the back of the chair of a professed belle, turning his head to conceal a yawn that neither the lady's skill nor his good manners could repress, observed Charlotte sitting quietly by the side of her friend. Her entrance had been conducted with such tact, that had she possessed the most musical ear imaginable, it were impossible to disturb the party less; a circumstance that did not fail to impress Seymour agreeably, from its novelty. He moved to the side of the fair vision that had engrossed all his thoughts since the moment they had first met, and took the chair that the good nature of Miss Osgood offered to his acceptance between them.
"Thank fortune, Miss Henly," he said, the instant he was seated, "that bravura has ceased, and I can now inquire how you recovered from the fatigue of your walk?"
"I suffered no fatigue to recover from," replied the lady, raising her eyes to his with an expression that told the youth he had better talk straight forward at once; "I walk too much to be fatigued with so short an excursion."
"You came here to favour us with your skill on the harp, Miss Henly?"
"No."
"On the piano?"
"On neither—I play on nothing."
"You sing, then?"
"Not at all."
"What! not with that voice?" exclaimed the young man, in surprise.