“Oh, my dear Iola,” cried Miss Ruthven, “hasten to bed, I beg of you, and save us all. And yet, do you know, I rather like to hear Dr. Charrington sing. It makes me think of our automobile tour in the Highlands last year,” she continued with mischievous gravity.
“Ah,” said Jack, much flattered, “I don't quite—”
“Oh, the horn, you know.”
“Wretch! Now I refuse outright to sing.”
“Really? And after we had prepared ourselves for the—ah—experience.”
“How do you feel now, Iola?” said Jack, quietly placing his fingers upon her pulse.
“Perfectly strong, I assure you. Listen.” And she ran up her chromatics in a voice rich and strong and clear.
“Well, this is most wonderful!” exclaimed Jack. “Her pulse is strong, even, steady. Her respiration is normal.”
“I told you!” cried Iola triumphantly. “Now you will let me sing—not a big song, but just that wee Scotch thing I learned from old Jennie. Barney's mother used to sing it.”
“My dear Iola,” entreated Lady Ruthven, “do you think you should venture? Do you think she should, Dr. Boyle?”