"Was it only one?" inquired Emily. "I thought the whole band had come to a stop."
"The poor young fellow with the flute put 'em all out," replied Hooker. "He went off in such a scream, as if the drawing-room was hurrying right into a tunnel. He has never held his head up since."
"Poor man," said Emily; "which is it?"
"That foreign-looking, bewhiskered lad, with the pale face next to us. A bad job for him, I guess."
"O no! As you say my coming in was the cause of his misfortune, I must try and not let it be too serious."
In spite of all my efforts to appear ignorant of the conversation, I found my cheeks growing alternately red and white, as anger or confusion got the upper hand. I took up my flute, and had thoughts of suddenly leaving the room—of knocking Mr Hooker down—of introducing myself to Mr Pybus; but before I could make up my mind what to do, I felt that her voice was addressed to me. I felt it, I say, for I did not look to where she was. I looked upon vacancy, and must have had an intellectual expression on my countenance congenial to that interesting employment.
"He doesn't hear me," she said to Hooker. "Perhaps he doesn't understand English."
"Hollo! you sir," said the gentleman, "don't you hear the lady speaking to you? Do you only sprichen Dutch or parley-vous?"
His hand was laid roughly on my shoulder to call my attention to his speech. I half sprang up, shook off his hand as if it had been a toad and was on the point of saying or doing something very absurd, when I was checked by the alarmed look of Emily, who evidently thought I was going to commit murder on the unfortunate object of my wrath.
"The dooce is in the fellow," said Mr Hooker; "he couldn't look more lofty were he a prince in disguise."