“It seems to me,” said Ira, “that in the present condition of things, a conservative must be either an ignoramus, a coward, or a knave. But, madam,” he added, turning to Mrs. Tootler, “we are boring you with politics. Parlons chiffons.”
“Chiffons!” cried Cecilia. “I am really indignant, Mr. Waddy. I do not believe that the gentleman so quietly smoking by your side would ever have been really roused if I were not always buzzing in his ears.”
“She is right,” admitted Mr. Tootler, sipping the last drops of his now cold coffee. “Women are vigorous antidotes to moral or mental sleepiness. But, Waddy, our little adventure is bringing the present too near us; to-night must be devoted to recalling our dear old days together. To-morrow we’ll talk politics and be sad for the uncertainties of our cause—‘ma quest oggi n’ é dato goder,’” he sang.
“‘Non contiamo l’ incerto domani,’” responded Cecilia, with spirit, from the same air, “which I freely translate that we do not count the future of our cause uncertain at all, either to-morrow or after.”
It is a fascinating thing to see a lovely woman in wrath, and probably Mr. Waddy thought for the moment more of how startlingly bright were the eyes of the lady, and how quick her heart’s blood leaped to her vivid cheek, than of the cause that made the eyes electric and the cheek burning.
“My wife knows all the old songs, Ira,” said Tommy, also gazing admiringly, but deeming it discreet to change the subject, “and I’ve not forgotten my stock. We’ll have the old first, as old wine should come, and then, if satiety does not interfere, you shall have new music till you cry basta.”
“Yes,” agreed Cecilia, the little storm over in an instant, “I’ve learnt all your old favourites, Mr. Waddy. We have always expected you and determined to make you forget your sad absence,” and then, as if she had been too frank and had betrayed some confidence of husband and wife, she shrank a little and folded into herself like a mimosa leaf.
“Thank you,” said Mr. Waddy simply.
So they had music. Mrs. Tootler’s voice was a pearly soprano of more marked tenderness and sentiment than you would have expected from her blithesomeness of manner. Tommy’s was a barytone, strong and rich; it rolled out of the happy little man in a careless way, perpetually making musical ten-strikes. Mr. Waddy sometimes contributed a bass note, deep as an oubliette.
But it was his part to assist passively rather than actively at the concert. He would have listened quite forever, but at last the husband detected huskiness and said punch. Thereupon he brewed a browst—tumblers for the men, a wineglass for the lady. They partook by the rising moonlight.