And Colonel St Quentin was forced to smile.
Then Madelene and he joined the two others in the drawing-room.
“Can we not have a little music?” said Colonel St Quentin, a minute or two latter. “Ella, my dear, you play I suppose—or do you sing?”
His tone was kindlier again. Madelene’s spirits rose. She thought her talk with her father had done good. She went towards the piano and opened it, glancing smilingly at her young sister.
Ella was seated on a low chair in a corner of the room—the light of a lamp fell on her face and bright hair. It struck Madelene that she looked paler than on her first arrival.
“Will you play something, Ella?” she said, “or are you perhaps too tired?”
“I am not the least tired, thank you,” the girl replied, “but I hate playing. I never practise, on that account.”
“Upon my word,” muttered Colonel St Quentin.
“Do you sing then?” Ermine interposed, quickly. Ella hesitated.
“Your mother—mamma,” said Madelene, using purposely the old name for her stepmother, “mamma sang beautifully.”