“No, my mother wrote it.”
After a silence:
“It is really exquisite,” said Mrs. Barres. “Are there words to it?”
Some people had come into the entrance hall beyond; there was the low whirring of an automobile outside.
“Yes, my mother made some verses for it,” replied Dulcie.
“Will you sing them for me after dinner?”
“Yes, I shall be happy to.”
Mrs. Barres turned to welcome her new guests, now entering the music room convoyed by Barres senior, who was arrayed in the dreaded “stiff shirt” and already indulging in “table talk.”
“They took,” he was explaining, “a midge-fly with no hackle—Claire, here are the Gerhardts and Mr. Skeel!” And while his wife welcomed them and introductions were effected, he continued explaining the construction of the midge to anybody who listened.
At the first mention of Murtagh Skeel’s name, the glances of Westmore, Garry and Thessalie crossed like 317 lightning, then their attention became riveted on this tall, graceful, romantic looking man of early middle age, who was being lionised at Northbrook.