Janet replied, playing softly,
“He knows nothing yet. He wants to make us both ridiculous, for no reason. Sing; I’ll help you all I can.”
Dolff breathed a sigh that fluttered the music upon the piano.
“What pluck you have,” he said, with unwilling admiration.
He had sworn never to trust her again, never to have anything to do with her; but how hard it was when he stood by her thus, and felt the charm of her presence, the readiness and courage and support of her little alert soul.
“Sing,” she said, firmly, holding down the beginning notes to make a bruyant, noisy dash of sound and give him courage.
And Dolff sang—like a martyr—giving forth the uproarious, would-be fun of the words as if they were a psalm, stumbling over every second line, losing his place, forgetting what came next. The audience laughed behind them audibly, noisily, as indeed was right enough, and the effect intended by the song. But it was not at the song they laughed, but at the singer and his ludicrous gravity, and the embarrassment which was freely attributed to temper, both by his mother and sister.
Mrs. Harwood was a little offended at last by the laughter of the others though it was an absurd performance. A woman soon becomes weary of ridicule when called forth by a child of her own.
“You are very merry,” she said. “I never heard you laugh so much before, Gussy, at your brother’s performance.”
“It is very absurd, mamma.”