“Oh no, not at all, amusez vous toujours,” answered Betsy, and she led Otto and Emilie with her to the sofa. To strangers she was always most amiable.
“Come, Eline, do let us hear you; deary, we are dying for your ravishing melodies!” Léonie continued, with unextinguishable vivacity. “I will accompany you with my fairy fingers.”
“No, Léo; not this evening, please. I am not in voice.”
“Not in voice? I don’t believe a word of it! Come! allons, chante ma belle! what shall it be?”
“Yes, Eline, do sing!” cried Madame van Raat from the opposite room, and then in an embarrassed voice asked her partner what were trumps.
“Really, little madam; really, Léo, I can’t. I can always tell when I can’t sing. I don’t as a rule refuse, do I? But you have brought some music with you, have you not?”
“Yes; but they are not the sort of songs to commence with, they are for later in the evening. Something serious first; come, Eline, allons!”
“No, no; positively not,” said Eline, shaking her head; it was really impossible. She felt as though in a fever, which brought a faint blush to her cheeks, caused her eyelids to droop languidly, made her pulses beat, her fingers tremble.
“Positively not?” she heard softly repeated, and she glanced round. It was Otto, who, seated beside Betsy and Emilie, asked her, and looked at her with his honest, expressive eyes. Once more she shook her head, still, so she thought, awkwardly; but really with unconscious grace.
“Really, I could not.”