Katherine was singing a gay Neapolitan air. She had a rich, sympathetic voice, and sang with arch expression.
Errington stood beside her, and Lady Alice, the rector's wife and one or two other guests, were grouped round.
"Thank you. That is thoroughly Italian. You must have studied a good deal," said Errington, who rather liked music, and was accustomed to the best.
"Very nice indeed," added Lady Alice. "Very nice" was her highest praise. "I should like to learn the song."
"I do not think it would suit you," observed Errington.
"Why, Katherine, I had no notion you could 'tune up' in this way," cried Colonel Ormonde. "Give us another, like a good girl; something English—'Robin Adair.' There was a fellow in 'ours' used to sing it capitally."
"I cannot sing it, Colonel Ormonde. I am very sorry."
"Oh, Katherine! I have heard you sing it a hundred times," cried Mrs. Ormonde, joining them. "Why, it was a great favorite with poor dear Mrs. Liddell."
"I cannot sing it, Ada," repeated Katherine, quick and low. As she spoke she caught Errington's eyes.
"No one ought to dictate to a songstress," he said, very decidedly. "Give us anything you like, so long as you sing."