"'Some folks want power and riches, and really will not
be denied,
And when they've accomplished their object, they are
very far from satisfied;
A fig for your wealth and your power, for riches I care
not a jot;
Contented am I—yes! and happy—I'm quite satisfied
with my lot.'"
"Inappropriate," said Rosalind under her breath, "isn't it?"
The vocalist looked up again, for now she knew the words;—
"'I'm not tired of England, I've no wish to roam,
There's a little six-roomed house that's my home, sweet home;
My house is my castle—who is my pride and joy?
Why! his Royal Highness the King of the Castle, my little baby boy.'"
When she had shrilled the chorus times without number she withdrew, and Conrad said,
"Can't we go and sit further back where we can talk? Look at all those chairs over there."
"If you like. What do you think of her?"
"She can't sing."
"Oh, that's a detail. But she doesn't work the song."
"How do you mean?"