I cannot say that when I got into my bedroom I felt very ecstatic. Without an unusual degree of exertion I could have cried; but, thank goodness, I had sense enough not to do that.
When I went down to tea I found that Bertha and Miss Reeves had arrived--and the luggage, and the creatures. The Sanfords had creatures of their own; dogs and birds galore. Among the latter was one which I afterwards learnt was a jay. It made the most ridiculous noises, so that I felt that Lord Chesterfield was justified in fixing it with his stony gaze; and in observing, with serious and ceaseless reiteration--
"Don't be a fool!"
The conversation immediately got into channels which I would much rather it had kept out of. Bertha began it.
"Molly, you've just come in time. There's going to be a sing-song on the island to-night, and as I'm getting up the programme I hope you'll turn out to be a gem of the first water. What'll you do?" I did not know what a "sing-song" was. Bertha explained. "A sing-song? Oh, a kind of a sort of a concert--informal, free-and-easy, don't you know. All the river people turn up on the island--they bring their own illuminations--then some of us do things to amuse them. Will you give us a banjo solo?"
"I'm afraid I don't play the banjo."
"Not play the banjo? I thought everyone could make a row on the banjo. Can't you play it enough to accompany your own singing?"
"I'm afraid I don't sing."
"Don't sing? Then what do you do?"
"I bar recitations"; this was Miss Reeves.