When dinner was over, Sinclair asked Miss MacAllister if she would play and sing for them. "I have not heard a song," he said, "nor the sound of a civilized instrument since the evening at the consulate, just after we landed."
For a moment her eyes danced mischievously. A question about that Indian song of his trembled upon her lips. But she thought better of it, deciding not to say anything which might mar the evening by any misunderstanding. So she replied:
"I am afraid that you will hardly call this piano a civilized instrument after you have heard it. It has almost ceased to be an instrument at all. Its age, the climate, and the lack of a tuner have combined to make it a mere caricature of a piano. But, if you'll try to imagine that the weird sounds it produces are music, I shall do my best."
"Your voice will more than compensate for any deficiencies in the instrument," he said as he conducted her to the piano.
"Dr. Sinclair, I am surprised at you. I didn't think that you would flatter."
"I am not flattering. I mean it."
She bent over the music; but he could see the warm colour flow up the side of her neck and face. He wondered if he had been too bold. Had he displeased her? She kept her head bent down and slowly turned the leaves of a song folio which rested on the keys. He could see little of her face. Had he by his rashness annoyed her and brought discord into that delightful evening?
Presently she seemed to have made a choice. She gave him one quick, shy glance, and he saw her face. The blush still lingered there, but there was no trace of displeasure.
"Would you like me to sing this?"
She laid the folio open on the piano. Sinclair's heart gave a leap. She had chosen a love song. It was not indeed a maiden's tale of love, but the love of a man for a maid. Nevertheless, it was a woman's song, and a woman's tenderness breathed through both words and melody of immortal "Annie Laurie."