‘Yes,’ said Ethelberta placidly. But it was really with an effort. The song was the identical one which Christopher sent up to her from Sandbourne when the fire of her hope burnt high for less material ends; and the discovery of the sheet among her music that day had started eddies of emotion for some time checked.
‘I am sorry you have been grieved,’ said Lord Mountclere, with gloomy restlessness.
‘Grieved?’ said Ethelberta.
‘Did I not see a tear there? or did my eyes deceive me?’
‘You might have seen one.’
‘Ah! a tear, and a song. I think—’
‘You naturally think that a woman who cries over a man’s gift must be in love with the giver?’ Ethelberta looked him serenely in the face.
Lord Mountclere’s jealous suspicions were considerably shaken.
‘Not at all,’ he said hastily, as if ashamed. ‘One who cries over a song is much affected by its sentiment.’
‘Do you expect authors to cry over their own words?’ she inquired, merging defence in attack. ‘I am afraid they don’t often do that.’