“I wish Miss Jenness was here,” said Dunham, politely. “But we must try to get on as it is. With Miss Blood's voice to start with, nothing ought to discourage us.” Dunham had a thin and gentle pipe of his own, and a fairish style in singing, but with his natural modesty he would not offer himself as a performer except in default of all others. “Don't you sing, Mr. Hicks?”
“Anything to oblige a friend,” returned Hicks. “But I don't sing—before Miss Blood.”
“Miss Blood,” said Staniford, listening in ironic safety, “you overawe us all. I never did sing, but I think I should want to make an effort if you were not by.”
“But don't you—don't you play something, anything?” persisted Dunham, in desperate appeal to Hicks.
“Well, yes,” the latter admitted, “I play the flute a little.”
“Flutes on water!” said Staniford. Hicks looked at him in sulky dislike, but as if resolved not to be put down by him.
“And have you got your flute with you?” demanded Dunham, joyously.
“Yes, I have,” replied Hicks.
“Then we are all right. I think I can carry a part, and if you will play to Miss Blood's singing—”
“Try it this evening, if you like,” said the other.