Except Mr. Bolton’s reading-lamp, there was no light in the room save moonlight; and the space was so great that the lamplight was lost in the other rays.
There was silence as Jerome came in, and just glanced at Nita’s pale face, which looked almost ghastly in the white moonlight. He paused, and asked her if she felt rested.
‘Yes, thank you,’ replied Nita, with a little catching of her breath, which John at least noticed. ‘I am all right, but John is a tyrant, and says if I get up he will go.’
‘Quite right, too,’ observed Miss Shuttleworth from her corner.
‘Would anyone like a light?’ asked Nita.
‘Oh, don’t light up! This moonlight is heavenly. It only wants music to make it complete,’ said John. ‘Wellfield, when you were a precocious infant of eleven, at which age I last knew you, you used to play tunes on the piano, and sing little Italian songs, which used to fascinate me. Have you forgotten how?’
‘Not utterly, though I have no doubt fallen off from the first engaging innocence of childhood.’
‘Well, won’t you give us a specimen,’ said the benighted barbarian—‘if Nita is not too tired?’ he added, turning to her.
‘I—oh no! if Mr. Wellfield will sing, I should like it,’ said Nita, utterly unconscious that she was invoking the most powerful of the weapons of fascination possessed by her hero, and anxious only to preserve a little longer the friendly moonlight.
‘Certainly, if one could ever sing at all, one would be able to do so in such a place, and with such surroundings as these, observed Jerome, carelessly, as he struck a chord or two. ‘Ah! your piano is a Bechstein, Miss Bolton; you might have imported it on purpose for me. All I stipulate is, that you will cry “Hold!” in a loud voice, when you have had enough of it.’