Miss MacAllister, looking at Sinclair from the seat she had taken near the French window, agreed with the consul's judgment. The big Canadian was in conventional evening dress, except for one slight concession made to the heat of the climate. Instead of the low-cut vest he wore a broad kamarband of black silk about his waist. The only trace of jewellery was the gold locket on the end of a black leather watch guard, which hung over the kamarband. There was a total absence of dressiness. But as the girl who had been for years familiar with London drawing-rooms looked at the strong, clean-cut features, the massive head with its fair hair contrasting with the black clothing, the lazy grace of the powerful frame leaning against the mantel-piece, she thought to herself that she had never seen a man who had on him more of the marks of being to the manner born. Yet he was the self-confessed son of a Canadian farmer, and reared on a Canadian farm. She found it hard to remain offended with this big, good-looking, good-tempered man.
Involuntarily she compared him again with Carteret, the son of a noble English family. The latter was now talking to Mrs. Beauchamp. She could see that his ordinarily somewhat pallid face was flushed and there was an expression in his eyes which was not pleasant to see. She thought again of that greedy look and of the hot breath, heavy with wine. She turned her eyes once more towards Sinclair. He was talking to the consul and smiling. The distinction between the two young men took shape in her mind. Sinclair was clean and his smile was frank and pure as that of a child.
She heard the consul saying to him:
"McLeod tells me that you sing."
"McLeod tells a lot of things he knows very little about. I shall have to lay an injunction upon him to hold his peace."
"That's all right for some other time. But for the present you do not deny the charge that you do sing."
"I'll plead guilty to disturbing my neighbours sometimes by singing college songs and such things. But I have none of them here and no music for the accompanist."
"Just what we want; something lively. If there's a chorus, we'll all join in. Give me an idea how it goes and I can chord for you."
Beauchamp ran his fingers over the keys while Sinclair hummed or lilted the tune. Soon the proper chord was struck. Sinclair repeated the words of the chorus till all got them. Then he sang a rollicking college song. When he reached the chorus all joined in, and for the first time the walls of the old Dutch fort and the listening palms and oleanders and magnolias heard the jolly abandon of "The Old Ontario Strand."
When the chorus was reached the second time, Sinclair relinquished the leadership of the air to Miss MacAllister. She took it as if by prearrangement, while he dropped into his rightful place and supplied the undertone of a bass powerful enough to balance the voices of all the rest of the company.