She hesitated. A rare shyness, born of the afternoon's fiasco, was still upon her.
"Who sent you?" she asked, smiling up at him.
"Colonel Mayhew, and several others." He bent lower. "Tu es trop fatiguée apres ce vilain polo?"
"Non, ce n'est pas ça . . . mais . . ."
"Do, Miss Maurice, please, do," urged an enthusiastic young civilian on her left. "A woman's voice, especially yours, would be a rare treat after our promiscuous shouting."
And on her other side Garth, pressing closer, whispered his plea.
"Don't disappoint me. It is ages since I last heard you sing."
Without answering either, she touched her brother's arm. "Tune up,
Michel," she said low and hurriedly. "I have thought of a song."
Garth murmured his thanks with unusual empressement. Her instant acquiescence had both moved and flattered him; and his hopes rode high. As a matter of fact, she had not even heard his request. She had simply obeyed an impulse, as in most crises of her life;—an impulse so peremptory that it seemed almost a command from Beyond.
"What song is it to be?" Maurice asked, when the tuning process was complete.