Miss Vi fixed her glowing eyes full upon his for a moment, and then dropped them suddenly. His were full of their old, gentle, good-natured mirth.
There was a little pause, and, suddenly looking up, she said rather petulantly:
“Think of him? Why, I suppose I think what everyone else does. I think him handsome; I think him agreeable; I think he has an estate; I think he looks like a gentleman; and I think he is the only man who appears in this neighbourhood that is not in one way or other a bore. Shall I sing you a song?”
And with heightened colour and bright eyes, this handsome girl sat down to the piano, which had a cracked and ancient voice, like the reedy thrum of a hurdy-gurdy, contrasting quaintly with her own mellow tones, and she sang—nothing to the purpose, nothing with a sly, allegoric satire in it, but the first thing that came into her head—sweet and sad as a song of old times; and ancient Miss Perfect, for a verse or so, lowered her letter, and listened, smiling, with a little sigh; and William, listening also, fell into a brown study, as he looked on the pretty songstress, and her warblings mingled with his dreams.
“Thank you, little Vi,” said he, rising with a sudden smile, and standing beside her as the music ceased. “Very pretty—very sweet.”
“I am glad you like it, William,” she said, kindly.
“William, again!” he repeated.
“Well—yes.”
“And why not Willie, as it used to be?” he persisted.
“Because it sounds foolish, somehow. I’m sure you think so. I do.”