I was the youngest, and had to do all the uninteresting things, such as unpacking the spoons and forks, and taking the paper wrappings off the tumblers, while the others laid out the provisions and quarrelled over the best arrangement. But it was fun when we all sat down and began to eat. The Japanese lanterns were tied to the trees overhead, and made everything look bright and cheery, for the moon had hidden itself behind the clouds, and it had been just a wee bit cheerless the last half-hour. We heated the soup over a little spirit-lamp, and had lobster salad on dainty little paper plates, and cold chicken and cutlets, and all sorts of delicious sweets and fruit, and we all ate a lot, and groaned and said how ill we should be in the morning, and then ate some more and didn’t care a bit. It was almost as good as a feast in the dormitory. Then we told funny stories, and asked riddles, and Lady Mary sang coon songs to her mandoline, and I was enjoying myself simply awfully when someone said—it was Mr Nash, and I shall never forgive him for it—
“Now it’s your turn, Miss Una! Your father is always talking of your singing, yet we never seem to hear you. Too bad, you know! You can’t refuse to-night, when we are all doing our best to amuse each other. Now, then, what is it to be?”
I was horrified! I love singing, but it seemed so formidable with no accompaniment, and no piano behind which to hide my blushes, but the more I protested, the more they implored, until Vere said quite sharply—
“For goodness’ sake, child, do your best, and don’t make a fuss! Nobody expects you to be a professional!”
“Start ahead, and I’ll vamp an accompaniment. It will be better than nothing,” said Lady Mary kindly, and Will whispered low in my ear: “Don’t be nervous. Do your best. Astonish them, Babs!” And I did. That whisper inspired me somehow, and I sang “The Vale of Avoca,” father’s favourite ballad, pronouncing the words distinctly, as the singing mistress always made us do at school. I love the words, and the air is so sweet, and just suits my voice. I always feel quite worked up and choky when I come to the last verse, but I try not to show it, for it looks so silly to cry at yourself.
There was quite a burst of applause when I finished. The men clapped and called out “Bravo! Bravo!” Lady Mary said, “You little wretch! You do take the wind out of my sails. Fancy having to be bothered to sing with a voice like that! Gracious! I should never leave off!” and Vere laughed, and said in her sweetest tones, “But, for pity’s sake, don’t turn sentimental, Babs! It’s so absurdly out of keeping! Stick to something lively and stirring—something from the comic operas! That would be far more in your line, don’t you think so, Mr Dudley?”
Will was leaning back on his elbow, resting his head on his hand.
“It’s a question of taste,” he said lazily. “Some people are fond of comic operas. Personally, I detest them; but I don’t profess to be a judge. I only know what I like.”
“A sentimental ballad, for example?”
“Occasionally. Not always, by any means.” He seemed determined not to give a straight-forward answer, and Vere turned aside with a shrug and began to talk to Mr Carstairs. She always takes refuge with him when other people fail her. I felt all hot and churned up with the excitement of singing, and then with rage at being snubbed in that public fashion. It spoiled all the pleasure and made me wonder if I had really made an exhibition of myself, and they were only pretending to be pleased.