"Sing 'Sanson et Dalila'," begged the Hon. Mrs. Porter, feeling surer of her ground when dealing with passion in opera, where, however unbridled, it remained respectably unconvincing to the mind of the British matron.
"I was saving that till Cyprian Sterne had finished rocking the cradle upstairs," said Muriel. "It happens, quite unsuitably, to be his favourite song, and the hand that rocks the cradle rules the girls—in that its action suggests a future peacefully free from that domestic duty for them."
"I have sent up two messages," Mrs. Carmichael anticipated her husband plaintively, "but he replied that he was not feeling very well to-night and would join us after dinner."
"I have repeatedly said——" began Mr. Carmichael, but was firmly interrupted: "I know you have, dear, but if half an hour with Ferlie amuses him, I think it would be better to leave him alone to-night." She looked across, meaningly, at Muriel and closed her lips. Tact was a thing nobody seemed able to acquire who had not been born with it.
Muriel made a little grimace and burst suddenly into a very simple melody:
"J'ai pris un bluet Fluet
Enclos parmi l'herbe
Et quelqu'un m'a dit; Mon Dieu!
Il n'est pas de bleu plus bleu
Que ce bleu superbe.
Moi, qui sais ce que je sais—
J'ai souri sans lui rien dire
Car à tes yeux je pensais—
Sans rien dire, sans rien dire."
The notes quickened with heartless mirth, and the pure voice rang out again:
"Au rosiers fleuris j'ai pris."
Mrs. Carmichael, ruminating that the piano, at any rate, kept Muriel out of mischief, here clutched thankfully, decided that the song concerned roses, and framed an intelligent appreciation, on that hypothesis, against its finish.
Cyprian walked into the room as the last verse, reckless with desire, was sweetening the air: