“I am very sorry,” said Morris, sitting forward in his chair. “I don’t know what you expected. I did my poor level best.”
“And it was damned poor, sir, I’d have you know.”
Morris was trying hard not to laugh. The old gentleman glared at him fiercely. There was a moment’s silence, and then Leighton said, very quietly:
“She is charming,—more than that. There is something very unusual about her. I knew that before she sang; and her singing sets her apart from all the world.”
Merriam’s face changed slowly. He was listening carefully. He had used his bluster to draw Morris out. He assumed now an air of indifference as Leighton went on:
“I didn’t know that singing could be like that. I don’t believe I ever heard anybody sing before! There was something strange about it—almost uncanny—in what seemed to lie back of it.”
“You noticed it—you felt it?”
Merriam rose and walked back and forth before the fire, with his hands thrust deep into his trousers pockets.
“A savage would feel it. It was as though—”
The old man paused suddenly and glared at Morris.