"These are great men and geniuses, ma chérie. You have here two great artists together. They both have wings on their shoulders. Before they fly away from us and are lost on Olympus, be charming to them. Carolina, ma chérie, they shall hear you sing."
Robert Dearborn put his hand on Potowski's shoulder and said—
"We love your husband, madame. He has been such a bully friend to us, such a wonderful friend."
"Poof, my dear Bobbie," murmured Potowski.
("J'ai perdu ma tourterelle.")
Fairfax asked, looking directly at her, "Will you
really sing for us, Madame Potowski? Can you sing some old English ballad? We have not heard a word of English for many a long day."
Potowski wandered softly into a familiar tune. He smiled over his shoulder at his wife, and, standing by the piano, Caroline Carew—Carolina Potowski—put her hands over her husband's on the keys and indicated an accompaniment, humming.
"If you can, dear, I will sing Mr. Rainsford this."
Tony took his place on the divan.