At last she concluded, and, rising, made a mock bow to her three listeners, all of whom congratulated her, the mill-owner declaring:
“You really ought to give a turn at the Palace Theatre, Sheila! I’ve heard lots of worse songs there!”
”‘Tiny Tentoes, the Cabinet Minister’s daughter’ would certainly be a good draw!” declared Cicely.
“Oh! well, I know you all like French songs, so I sang it. That’s all,” answered their sprightly young hostess. “But look! it’s past eleven, and father said he would be back before ten to see you before you left. I’ll telephone to the House.”
And she descended to the small library on the ground floor, where she quickly “got on” to the House of Commons.
When she re-entered the drawing-room she exclaimed:
“He left the House more than an hour ago. I wonder where he is? He ought to have been back long before this.”
Then at her guests’ request she sang another French chanson—which, through the half-open window, could have been heard out in Curzon Street—greatly to the delight of the little party.
At last, just before midnight. Cicely, pleading that they had to leave by the Continental mail early next morning, excused herself and her husband, and left in a taxi, for which Grant had whistled, after which Sheila and Austin found themselves alone.
When two people of the opposite sex, and kindred spirits as they were, find themselves alone the usual thing happens. It did in their case. While Sheila looked over her music, in response to Austin’s request to sing another song while awaiting the return of her father, their hands touched. He grasped hers and gazed straight into her face.