“There are my father’s songs.”
My lord struck a false note on the harpsichord.
“Some old Cavalier ditty, fusty as a buff coat! No, my dear, we have forgotten how to carry a bandolier.”
“Let the girl try something. Teach her one of the playhouse songs.”
Barbara sat with one hand in her bosom.
“There is an old song I remember,” she said, with the far-away look of one calling something to mind.
My lord paused and glanced at her.
“What do you call it?”
She met his eyes.
“‘The Chain of Gold.’”