"Indeed!" said Miss Graham, repeating the exclamation which had sounded so disagreeable to Sir Oswald. "I certainly should have mistaken them for old friends; but then dear Lady Eversleigh is of Italian extraction, and there is always a warmth of manner, an absence of reserve, in the southern temperament which is foreign to our colder natures."
Lady Eversleigh rose from her seat just at this moment, in compliance with the entreaties of the circle about her.
She approached the grand piano, where Victor Carrington was still sitting, turning over the leaves of some music, and at the same moment Sir Oswald rose also, and hurried towards her.
"Do not sing any more to-night, Honoria," he said; "you will fatigue yourself."
There was some lack of politeness in this speech, as Lady Eversleigh was about to sing in compliance with the entreaties of her guests. She turned to her husband with a smile—
"I am not in the least tired, my dear Oswald," she said; "and if our friends really wish for another song, I am quite ready to sing one. That is to say, if Mr. Carrington is not tired of accompanying me."
Victor Carrington declared that nothing gave him greater pleasure than to play Lady Eversleigh's accompaniments.
"Mr. Carrington is very good," answered the baronet, coldly, "but I do not wish you to tire yourself by singing all the evening; and I beg that you will not sing again to-night, Honoria."
Never before had the baronet addressed his wife with such cold decision of manner. There was something almost severe in his tone, and Honoria looked at him with wondering eyes.
"I have no greater pleasure than in obeying you," she said, gently, as she withdrew from the piano.