fetch the parcel. Then she proceeded to open it and read out the titles of the songs. On Hilda's face there was the blandest of smiles, masking, if the truth had but been known, the keenest of interest. She knew that Mrs. Darrow's bombshell was now about to explode. To her, as to the wily widow, this was the incident of the evening – in fact, the whole raison d'etre of it.
"I hear your voice is a contralto, Miss Crane," said the Major, admiring the contour of her head. "I am so glad; it's my favourite voice."
"Really, Major?" observed Hilda. "I should have thought you would like something more lively – to me a contralto, no matter how beautiful, is always rather doleful."
"There I can't agree with you," put in Gerald. "To my thinking the contralto is always full of pathos – it is the voice which goes straight to the heart."
"Now, you too surprise me, Mr. Arkel," replied Hilda, smiling ever so amiably. "I did not think you were so susceptible in the – what is it the doctors call it – the cardiac region?"
"I think you, of all people, should know me better than that," murmured Gerald, bending towards her.
"Nonsense; I admit no such superiority. But hush, let us hear what it is Miss Crane is going to sing to us!"
Ever suspicious at any kindness however trifling on the part of Julia, the Squire had moved up close to the piano, and was keeping a pretty close watch upon her. But Mrs. Darrow was all unconscious of his scrutiny, being too deeply absorbed in the effective lodgment of her bombshell to pay much attention to anything else.
"'The Sands of Dee,' 'The Clang of the Wooden Shoon,' 'Down the Long Avenue,'" rattled off Mrs. Darrow. Then, with the prettiest air of surprise, "Oh, and here is a comic song!"
"I think you must be mistaken," said Miriam coldly. "I do not sing comic songs."
"Now, now, Miss Crane, you know you are hiding your light under a bushel," cried Mrs. Darrow with horribly artificial mirth. "What's more, I expect you sing them delightfully. Come now, confess."
Miriam seated there at the piano might in truth have been carved out of marble, so cold and so perfectly calm was she.
"I am sorry to disappoint you, but I don't sing any songs of that kind at all."
"Oh, but really!" Mrs. Darrow was smoothing out the folio of music; "you can't say that, in the face of this. Surely this must be yours – 'It's a Funny Little Way I've Got!' M. Crane, Frivolity Music Hall!" She handed the sheet over to Miriam.
Barton bit his lip, and began to see at last what she was after. Mrs. Darrow proceeded.
"Really, Miss Crane, I don't think I deserved to be so deceived at your hands. You might at least have told me that you were a singer at that class of – entertainment."
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