as Lord Byron says. And who could discourse on love—the true ring of it, mind you—as he did?
“Do sing,” said Tod to Miss MacEveril; and I found they had been teasing her to do so for the last five minutes. She had a pleasant voice and sang well.
“I’m sure you don’t care to hear me, Mr. Todhetley.”
“But I’m sure I do,” answered Tod, who would flirt with pretty girls when the fit took him. Flirt and flatter too.
“We should have everyone coming round us.”
“Not a soul of them. They are all away somewhere, out of hearing. Do sing me one song.”
She began at once, without more ado, choosing an old song that Mrs. Todhetley often chose; one that was a favourite of hers, as it was of mine: “Faithless Emma.” Those songs of the old days bore, all of them, a history.
“I wandered once at break of day,
While yet upon the sunless sea
In wanton sighs the breeze delayed,
And o’er the wavy surface played.
Then first the fairest face I knew,
First loved the eye of softest blue,
And ventured, fearful, first to sip
The sweets that hung upon the lip
Of faithless Emma.
So mixed the rose and lily white
That nature seemed uncertain, quite,
To deck her cheek which flower she chose,
The lily or the blushing rose.
I wish I ne’er had seen her eye,
Ne’er seen her cheeks of doubtful dye,
Nor ever, ever dared to sip
The sweets that hung upon the lip
Of faithless Emma.