"I shall be compelled to designate you the mark of interrogation—call you rogue for shortness."
"After this morning's experience, I shall not be able to find any name nice enough for you," I said, gently.
"That is cruel—literally smothering me with coals of fire."
I turned over my music with trembling fingers; for, more than all, I dreaded Mr. Bovyer. Selecting one of the simplest songs, I sat down, determined to go resolutely through with it. When I ceased, I found that Mr. Bovyer had joined us. I rose hastily. "I am so glad you have come; you will reward my obedience to Mr. Winthrop, surely?"
"Yes—by asking for some more of that tender music of the Fatherland. My mother used to croon that song over us in childhood."
Mr. Winthrop joined his commands; so I complied, with a German martial song; and then, rising quickly, I went to the further side of the room, and took a seat beside Mrs. Hill.
"You have got tired before the rest of us, dear."
"I would not like to tire you. Mr. Bovyer is going to play now, and we shall none of us be in danger of weariness."
And he did play as I had never heard him do before, filling the room with harmonies that sometimes grew painful in their excess of sweetness. Conversation ceased utterly—a compliment not usually paid to musicians, I had noticed, in Cavendish.
I glanced occasionally at Mr. Winthrop, who had taken a seat not far from where I was sitting. He sat with eyes closed, but not betraying, by a single muscle of the strong, self-contained face, that the music was affecting him in the slightest.