"Well—perhaps—I—did."
Some of the guests rose to depart, and their hostess rose with them. Before they had time to begin to say farewell, Carteret said loudly enough to be heard by all in the room:
"Mrs. Beauchamp, before we go, may we not hear Mr. De Vaux sing again? I know that we should all be delighted to hear him."
"I am afraid that we are imposing on Mr. De Vaux," replied the hostess, who realized the condition De Vaux ordinarily reached by that hour after a dinner. "I think that he is tired. He has done his part so well this evening that it seems unfair to ask him for any more."
"I am sure, Mrs. Beauchamp, that Mr. De Vaux will not feel it a hardship to sing again. He is our foremost vocalist in Formosa. We want him to uphold the honour of the local talent. Mr. De Vaux, will you not sing for us 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep'?"
"Lord! ... Mr. Carteret—ladies and gentlemen—how good of you to ask me! ... By——! ... Bless my soul, I mean! ... It is good of you.... I'm afraid.... I'm not in very good voice. But since you insist—I'll try.... By——! ... I mean 'pon my honour, I shall!"
"Shall I play your accompaniment, De Vaux?" said the consul, in response to an appealing look from his wife.
"How good of you, Beauchamp! ... By——! ... 'Pon my soul, I mean—it is!"
Purple-faced, perspiring, steadying himself by the piano, The Honourable Lionel Percival Dudley De Vaux sang, in a series of high-toned asthmatic gasps, "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep."
Then the guests said their farewells and, preceded by natives carrying lanterns, they began to move off into the warm aromatic darkness of the southern night.