“Tut, I am too old for that; take this indolent lad instead, his voice is fresh and young, and will chord well with yours.”
“Do you know that pretty chanson about ‘Love and Wine, and the Seine to-morrow,’ cousin Guy?” I asked, stealing a sly glance at my uncle.
“Who taught you that?” and Guy eyed me over the top of the couch with an astonished expression which greatly amused me.
“No one; uncle sang a bit of it in the carriage yesterday. I like the air, so come and teach me the rest.”
“It is no song for you, Sybil. You choose strange entertainment for a lady, sir.”
A look of unmistakable contempt was in the son’s eye, of momentary annoyance in the father’s, yet his voice betrayed none as he answered, still pacing placidly along the room,—
“I thought she was asleep, and unconsciously began it to beguile a silent drive. Sing on, Sybil; that Bacchanalian snatch will do you no harm.”
But I was tired of music now they had come, so I went to him, and, passing my arm through his, walked beside him, saying with my most persuasive aspect,—
“Tell me about Paris, uncle; I intend to go there as soon as I’m of age, if you will let me. Does your guardianship extend beyond that time?”
“Only till you marry.”