“Call me uncle, James, that’s a good little fellow, call me Uncle Walter,” said Forsyth.
Mary’s blush grew deeper; but James the younger was said to resemble Aunt Christian in many things, and in nothing more than in disliking Forsyth; and he was not to be conciliated, either with sugar-plum or toy, but remained steadfast in his childish instinct of dislike, so he said bluntly, “No,”—a bad omen this; but Forsyth was not to be discouraged, and Mrs. James, nettled a little by it, proceeded at once to open the campaign. Some new music was lying on the table, and she pointed to it.
“See, Mary, here is a present from Mr. Forsyth,” she said, laughingly, “but there is a condition attached to it which depends on you for its fulfilment.”
Mary, glad of anything to hide her confusion, bent over the table to look at it. “Well,” she said, “and what is the condition that depends on me.”
“Nay, ask the giver,” said Mrs. James, “he must make his agreement with you himself, I cannot make bargains for him.”
Mary was half afraid to lift her eyes to Forsyth’s face, but she did so, and asked by a glance what it was he required.
“The condition is not a very difficult one,” said he, in his most bland and soothing tone, “it was merely that Mrs. Melville would get you to sing this song for me. I was afraid I should fail did I ask myself.”
“And why this song, Mr. Forsyth,” asked Mary, “is it such a favourite?”
“I heard you sing it a year ago,” was the answer, spoken too low, Mary thought, to reach Mrs. James’s ear, and again the blood came rushing in torrents to her face.
Mrs. James began to move about as though about to leave the room; this silence would not do, it was too embarrassing, and Mary resumed, though her voice had likewise grown imperceptibly lower. “Christian is very fond of this song, and we all of us like it because she does.”