“What shall I sing?” said Bessie, turning over the loose music lying before her. “Ah! here is one of your favourites, Edmond, though I don’t think it very pretty. You must judge of it, Miss Methvyn. I have not sung it lately. Edmond has got tired of it, I suppose. At one time he was so fond of it, he used to make me sing it half-a-dozen times a day.”
She placed the song on the desk, and began to sing it before her brother noticed what she was doing. When he heard the first few bars, he got up from his seat and strolled to the window, where he stood impatiently waiting for a pause. Bessie had hardly reached the end of the first verse before he interrupted her. “I am sure Miss Methvyn will not care for that song, Bessie,” he exclaimed. “Do sing something else.”
He crossed the room to the piano, beside which Cicely was standing, and opened a book of songs which lay on the top. Mrs. Crichton left off singing, but turned towards her brother with some impatience. “You are very rude, Edmond,” she exclaimed with half playful petulance. “You should not interrupt me in the middle of a song. And you are very changeable—a very few months ago you thought this song perfectly lovely. Do you like it, Miss Methvyn?” she inquired, turning to Cicely. “The words are pretty.”
“Are they?” said Cicely, “I don’t think I caught them all. Yes, I think the song is rather pretty—not exceedingly so.”
“The other verses all end in the same way,” said Bessie, humming a note or two of the air; “that is the prettiest part, ‘Cicely, Cicely sweet.’”
Cicely gave an involuntary little start, but she did not speak. Mr. Guildford turned over the leaves of the book with increasing energy. “Here, Bessie, do sing this,” he exclaimed, placing another song in front of the tabooed one on the desk.
“No, I won’t,” said Bessie obstinately, “not till I have finished Cicely. I can’t understand your being so changeable—it was such a favourite of yours.”
“One outgrows fancies of the kind,” observed Cicely quietly. “Our tastes change. I dare say it is a good thing they do.”
“Do you think so?” said Mr. Guildford quickly. “I don’t quite agree with you. My tastes do not change, and I do not wish them to do so.”
He looked at her as he spoke. Cicely felt her cheeks flush, and she turned away. Bessie went on singing. By the time the song was over, Cicely, glancing up again, saw that Mr. Guildford had quietly left the room.