There was an entire absence of girlish softness or shyness in the speaker's manner, though it was both courteous and easy. The voice—musically deep—and the splendid black eyes, that looked so steadily at her, intimidated Mark Winnington's gentle sister.
Mrs. Andrews, whose dress, after Susy's ministration, had been declared out of danger, bent across the tea-table, all smiles and benevolence again, the plumes in her black hat nodding—
"It's like old times to have the Abbey open again, Miss Blanchflower! Every week we used to go to your dear grandmother, for her Tuesday work-party. I'm afraid you'll hardly revive that!"
Delia brought a rather intimidating brow to bear upon the speaker.
"I'm afraid not."
Lady Tonbridge, who had already greeted Delia as a woman naturally greets the daughter of an old friend, came up as Delia spoke to ask for a second cup of tea, and laid her hand on the girl's shoulder.
"Very sorry to miss you yesterday. I won't insult you by saying you've grown. How about the singing? You used to sing I remember when I stayed with you."
"Yes—but I've given it up. I took lessons at Munich last spring. But I can't work at it enough. And if one can't work, it's no good."
"Why can't you work at it?"
Delia suddenly looked up in her questioner's face. Her gravity broke up in a broad smile.