“Do you sing, Miss Temple?” asked Irving, politely.
“No,” she answered, “and what’s more, I know I don’t, but Aunt Peace likes to hear me.”
“We’d like to hear you, too,” said Mrs. Irving, so gently that no one could have refused.
Much embarrassed, she went to the piano, which stood in the next room, just beyond the arch, and struck a few chords. The instrument was old and worn, but still sweet, and, fearful at first, but gaining confidence as she went on, Iris sang an old-fashioned song.
Her voice was contralto; deep, vibrant, and full, but untrained. Still, there were evidences of study and of work along right lines. Before she had finished, Irving was beside her, resting his elbow upon the piano.
“Who taught you?” he asked, when the last note died away.
“Herr Kaufmann,” she replied, diffidently.
“I thought he was a violin teacher.”
“He is.”
“Then how can he teach singing?”