"Indeed you overwhelm me, sirs," said she, smiling. "Your impatience shall be satisfied, you shall passion and languish no longer!" And now as I bowed above her hand came her whisper, "I go to sing for you—to you, Peregrine!"
Then, giving her fan to Navy and her gloves to Army, she took the
Duke's arm, and moved away.
And in a while, sitting in a corner of the great ballroom between my two uncles, I saw her stand before this august assemblage serene in her proud, young beauty; saw her calm gaze seek until it met mine and drew my breath a little quicker because of her very loveliness.
Then I felt the smart of sudden tears as from the orchestra whispered a loved and familiar melody that rose, little by little, into that wild and plaintive Zingari air she had sung so often in the Silent Places years ago.
And now from her white throat stole a murmur of sweet sound, swelling gradually to a full, round sweetness, rising to a passion of sorrow and heartbreak, and dying to a sigh, was gone.
For a long moment after the final liquid note had died away was utter stillness, an awed silence; then some one ventured to clap, others joined in, and upon this sound came shouts, cries, cheer on cheer—a frantic ovation.
"By Gad, Perry," exclaimed my uncle George, blinking moist lashes. "She—she can sing, ye know! What I mean is she can—sing, b'gad! What d' you say, Jervas?"
"That you are exactly right, George, she can sing!" answered my uncle Jervas softly. "She and her voice are one in beauty. And she signals you, Perry, I think!"
"Be off, Peregrine!" said my uncle George. "Be off, lucky dog—London will run mad—she'll be the reigning toast to-morrow."
The Army and the Navy yielded her to me with a somewhat bad grace, and her slim fingers on my arm guided me through the throng to a deep curtained window recess, and in this comparative seclusion she turned and faced me, and I saw that she was trembling a little.