said, alarmed.
For a moment he was taken aback. Then he said, "What is the highest note you can sing?"
"I can sing A sometimes—only when I am alone. I dare not attempt it before people."
Conolly sat down, knowing now that Miss Lind was a commonplace amateur. He had been contrasting her with his sister, greatly to the disparagement of his home life; and he was disappointed to find the lady break down where the actress would have succeeded so well. Consoling himself with the reflexion that if Miss Lind could not rap out a B flat like Susanna, neither could she rap out an oath, he played the accompaniment much better than Marian sang the song. Meanwhile, Miss McQuinch, listening jealously in the green-room, hated herself for her inferior skill.
"Cool, and reserved, is the modern Benjamin Franklin," observed Marmaduke to her.
"Better a reserved man who can do something than a sulky one who can do nothing," she said, glancing at the tall man, with whom the clergyman was nervously striving to converse.
"Exquisite melody, is it not, Mr. Douglas?" said Mrs. Fairfax, coming to the clergyman's rescue.
"I do not care for music," said Douglas. "I lack the maudlin disposition in which the taste usually thrives."
Miss McQuinch gave an expressive snap, but said nothing; and the conversation dropped until Miss Lind had sung her song, and received a round of respectful but not enthusiastic applause.
"Thank you, Mr. Conolly," she said, as she left the platform. "I am afraid that Spohr's music is too good for the people here. Dont you think so?"
"Not a bit of it," replied Conolly. "There is nothing so very particular in Spohr. But he requires very good singing—better than he is worth."
Miss Lind colored, and returned in silence to her seat beside Miss McQuinch, feeling that she had exposed herself to a remark that no gentleman would have made.
"Now then, Nelly," said Marmaduke: "the parson is going to call time. Keep up your courage. Come, get up, get up."
"Do not be so boisterous, Duke," said Marian. "It is bad enough to have to face an audience without being ridiculed beforehand."
"Marian," said Marmaduke, "if you think Nelly will hammer a love of music into the British workman, you err. Lots of them get their living by hammering, and they will most likely resent feminine competition. Bang! There she goes. Pity the sorrows of a poor old piano, and let us hope its trembling limbs wont come through the floor."
"Really, Marmaduke," said Marian, impatiently, "you are excessively foolish. You are like a boy fresh from school."
Marmaduke, taken aback by her sharp tone, gave a long whispered whistle, and pretended to hide under the table. He had a certain gift of drollery which made it difficult not to laugh even at his most foolish antics, and Marian was giving way in spite of herself when she found Douglas bending over her and saying, in a low voice:
"You are tired of this place. The room is very draughty: I fear it will give you cold. Let me drive you home now. An apology can be made for whatever else you are supposed to do for these people. Let me get your cloak and call a cab."
Marian laughed. "Thank you, Sholto," she said; "but I assure you I am quite happy. Pray do not look offended because I am not so uncomfortable as you think I ought to be."
"I am glad you are happy," said Douglas in his former cold tone. "Perhaps my presence is rather a drawback to your enjoyment than otherwise."
"I told you not to come, Sholto; but you would. Why not adapt yourself to the circumstances, and be agreeable?"
"I am not conscious of being disagreeable."
"I did not mean that. Only I do not like to see you making an enemy of every one in the room, and forcing me to say things that I know must hurt you."
"To the enmity of your new associates I am supremely indifferent, Marian. To that of your old friends I am accustomed. I am not in the mood to be lectured on my behavior at present; besides, the subject is hardly worth pursuing. May I gather from your remarks that I shall gratify you by withdrawing?"
"Yes," said Marian, flushing slightly, and looking steadily at him. Then, controlling her voice with an effort, she added, "Do not try again to browbeat me into telling you a falsehood, Sholto."
Douglas looked at her in surprise. Before he could answer, Miss McQuinch reappeared.
"Well, Nelly," said Marmaduke: "is there any piano left?"
"Not much," she replied, with a sullen laugh. "I never played worse in my life."
"Wrong notes? or deficiency in the sacred fire?"
"Both."
"I believe your song comes next," said the clergyman to Conolly, who had been standing apart, listening to Miss McQuinch's performance.
"Who is to accompany me, sir?"
"Oh—ah—Miss McQuinch will, I am sure," replied the Rev. Mr. Lind, smiling nervously. Conolly looked grave. The young lady referred to closed her lips; frowned; said nothing. Marmaduke chuckled.
"Perhaps you would rather play your own accompaniment," said the clergyman, weakly.
Conolly shook his head decisively, and said, "I can do only one thing at a time, sir."
"Oh, they are not very critical: they are only workmen," said the clergyman, and then reddened deeply as Marmaduke gave him a very perceptible nudge.
"I'll not take advantage of that, as I am only a workman myself," said Conolly. "I had rather leave the song out than accompany myself."
"Pray dont suppose that I wish to be disagreeable, Mr. Lind," said Miss McQuinch, as the company looked doubtfully at her; "but I have disgraced myself too completely to trust my fingers again. I should spoil the song if I played the accompaniment."
"I think you might try, Nell," said Marmaduke, reproachfully.
"I might," retorted Miss McQuinch; "but I wont."
"If somebody doesnt go out and do something, there will be a shindy," said Marmaduke.
Marian hesitated a moment and then rose. "I am a very indifferent player," she said; "but since no better is to be had, I will venture—if Mr. Conolly will trust me."
Conolly bowed.
"If you would rather not," said Miss McQuinch, shamed into remorse, "I will try the accompaniment. But I am sure to play it all wrong."
"I think Miss McQuinch had better play," said Douglas.
Conolly looked at Marian; received a reassuring glance; and went to the platform with her without further ado. She was not a sympathetic accompanist; but, not knowing this, she was not at all put out by it. She felt too that she was, as became a lady, giving the workman a lesson in courtesy which might stand him in stead when he next accompanied "Rose, softly blooming." She was a little taken aback on finding that he not only had a rich baritone voice, but was, as far as she could judge, an accomplished singer.
"Really," she said as they left the platform,
