“It was a very beautiful solo, Miss O’Shaughnessy,” said Stephen gravely. He was still too much under the influence of the strain to think of future events. As long as he lived he would remember to-day’s experience, and see before him the picture of Pixie O’Shaughnessy in her rose frock, with the firelight shining on her face. Her unconsciousness had added largely to the charm of the moment, but now that the tension was relaxed there was a distinct air of complacence in her reply.
“’Tis a gift; we all have it. The concerts we had at Knock, and every one playing a separate instrument, with not a thing to help us but our own hands! I was the flute. D’ye remember, Pat, the way I whistled a flute till ye all stopped to listen to me?”
“I do not,” said Pat. “I was the ’cello myself, fiddling with a ruler on me own knees, double pedalling with two knees! I had no thought for flutes. Ye made the most noise, I’ll say that for ye!”
As usual in any discussion, brother and sister fell back to the brogue of their youth, which time and absence had softened to just an agreeable hint of an Irish accent. Stephen smiled with amusement, and expressed a wish to hear the exhibition on another day.
“But do sing us something else now,” he said; “something worthy to come after ‘The Wings.’”
And for the next hour, while the light waned till they could no longer see one another across the room, Pixie sang one beautiful strain after another, always in the same soft, restrained voice, which could neither disturb the neighbours above or below, nor be too strong for the size of the little room. It was not show singing—rather was it a series of “tryings over,” prefaced by “Oh, do you know this?” or “Don’t you love that bit?” so that each man felt at liberty to join in as the impulse took him, till at times all three were singing together.
The hours sped by with wonderful quickness, and when tea-time arrived Stephen insisted upon his right to help his hostess to clear away the meal, and when they returned to the sitting-room, lo! Pat had fallen asleep, and there was nothing to do for it but to return to the kitchen, now immaculately clean and neat under the rule of the admirable Moffatt.
“We might as well begin to think about supper, and forage around,” Pixie suggested, but Stephen echoed her own dislike of thinking of meals too far ahead, and pled for delay.
“It’s rather a strain to sit and look at cold meat for a solid hour at a stretch, don’t you think?” he asked persuasively. “It would spoil my appetite. Can’t we just—be quiet?”
“You can,” was Pixie’s candid answer; “I’m going to write! I’ve the greediest family for letters; do as I will, there’s never a time when somebody isn’t grumbling! Never mind me, if you want to smoke; I approve of men smoking, it keeps them quiet. Can I get you a book?”