“That is true. If everything else fails, a friend of mine who plays second violin will lend me his instrument,” said the Signor, “or a box-keeper now and then will be glad of an evening’s holiday. They are blasés, these people. They do not care if Patti sings. They will rather have a holiday and go to a music-hall.”
Augusta looked at her cousin, puzzled. She did not see the irony. After all, she thought, there was not, perhaps, so very much difference between a musician and those perfectly gentlemanlike people who showed you to your box or your stall. She had often thought how nice they looked. The Signor saw her bewilderment, and added, with a smile—“You have never recognised me in my borrowed part?”
“Oh, Signor!—certainly not. I never meant to say anything that would suggest—to imply anything that might——indeed, I hope you will not think I have been indiscreet,” cried Augusta. “But, Rollo, we must go, we must certainly go. I told mamma you would come with me to see the old Skeffingtons. Spencer is away, and I must return their call. Signor, I do hope you will forgive me. I meant nothing that was disagreeable. I am sure we are all put to worse straits than that, in order to get a little amusement without ruining ourselves. Oh, Rollo, please come away!”
Rollo had snatched an instant as Lottie gathered her music together. “It is not my fault,” he said. “She never lets me alone. I did not know she was coming here to-day. Do not put on that strange look.”
“Have I a strange look?” Lottie said. What ups and downs were hers!—the other day so triumphant, and now again so cast down and discouraged. The tears were standing in her eyes, but she looked at him bravely. “It does not matter,” she said; “perhaps she does not mean it. It takes away my heart, and then I have not any voice.”
“Oh, my love!” he whispered under his breath. “And I must put up with it all. At the elm-tree, dear, to-night.”
“Oh, no, no!” she said.
“Why no no? it is not my fault. Dear, for pity——”
“What are you saying to Miss Despard, Rollo? I am jealous of you, Lottie; my cousin never comes to my lessons. And, indeed, I wonder the Signor allows it. It is very delightful for us, but how you can work, really work with such a train!” Augusta turned round and looked severely at Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. “If I were the Signor I should not admit one creature except your maid.”
But this was an indignity which mortal could not endure. The kind Irishwoman rose to her feet as quickly as the low chair would permit. “And sure, I agree with the lady,” she said. “Lottie, me love, I can bear a deal for you, and I’ve stood your friend through thick and thin, as all here knows. But come again to the Signor’s I won’t, not if you were to go down on your knees—unless he gives his word of honour that them that hasn’t a scrap of manners, them that don’t know how to behave themselves, that whispers when you’re singing, and interrupts when you’re speaking, will never be here again to insult you—at least not when Mistress O’Shaughnessy’s here.”