“Plain-looking! Why, I think she has one of the most fascinating faces I’ve seen for some time, and her eyes are simply magnificent. What colour are they?”
“The grass is not bad about Sydney. I think I will send a truck of fat wethers away next week,” said uncle Jay-Jay to grannie.
“It is getting quite dark. Let’s get in to dinner at once,” said grannie.
During the meal I took an opportunity of studying the appearance of Everard Grey. He had a typically aristocratic English face, even to the cold rather heartless expression, which is as established a point of an English blue blood as an arched neck is of a thoroughbred horse.
A ringer, whose wife had been unexpectedly confined, came for grannie when dinner was over, and the rest of us had a delightful musical evening. Uncle Jay-Jay bawled “The Vicar of Bray” and “Drink, Puppy, Drink” in a stentorian bass voice, holding me on his knee, pinching, tickling, pulling my hair, and shaking me up and down between whiles. Mr Hawden favoured us by rendering “The Holy City”. Everard Grey sang several new songs, which was a great treat, as he had a well-trained and musical baritone voice. He was a veritable carpet knight, and though not a fop, was exquisitely dressed in full evening costume, and showed his long pedigreed blood in every line of his clean-shaven face and tall slight figure. He was quite a champion on the piano, and played aunt Helen’s accompaniments while he made her sing song after song. When she was weary uncle Jay-Jay said to me, “Now it’s your turn, me fine lady. We’ve all done something to keep things rolling but you. Can you sing?”
“No,”
“Can this youngster sing, Helen?”
“She sings very nicely to herself sometimes, but I do not know how she would manage before company. Will you try something, Sybylla?”
Uncle Jay-Jay waited to hear no more, but carrying me to the music-stool, and depositing me thereon, warned me not to attempt to leave it before singing something.
To get away to myself, where I was sure no one could bear me, and sing and sing till I made the echoes ring, was one of the chief joys of my existence, but I had never made a success in singing to company. Besides losing all nerve, I had a very queer voice, which every one remarked. However, tonight I made an effort in my old favourite, “Three Fishers Went Sailing”. The beauty of the full-toned Ronisch piano, and Everard’s clever and sympathetic accompanying, caused me to forget my audience, and sing as though to myself alone, forgetting that my voice was odd.