Elinor glanced at Marian, and saw that though Douglas was speaking to her in a low voice, she was listening nervously to her husband.  So she said sharply, “It is a pity you were not here to tell us what to do.”

“Apparently it is,” said Conolly, complacently.

“What would you have done?” said Marian suddenly, interrupting Douglas.

“I suppose,” said Conolly, looking round at her in surprise, “I should have answered her question—­told her what she was wanted for.  If I asked you to do anything, and you enquired why, you would be extremely annoyed if I answered, ‘because I ask you.’”

“I would not ask why,” said Marian.  “I would do it.”

“That would be very nice of you,” said Conolly; “but you cannot:  expect such a selfish, mistrustful, and curious animal as a little child to be equally kind and confiding.  Lucy is too acute not to have learned long since that grown people systematically impose on the credulity and helplessness of children.”

“Thats true,” said Elinor, reluctantly.  Marian turned away and quietly resumed her conversation with Douglas.  After a minute she strolled with him into the garden, whither Marmaduke had already retired to smoke.

“Has the evening been a pleasant one, Miss McQuinch?” said Conolly, left alone with her.

“Yes:  we have had a very pleasant evening indeed.  We played chess and ecarte; and we all agreed to make old times of it.  Marmaduke sang for us; and Marian had us nearly in tears with those old ballads of hers.”

“And then I came in and spoiled it all.  Eh?”

“Certainly not.  Why do you say that?”

“Merely a mischievous impulse to say something true:  jealousy, perhaps, because I missed being here earlier.  You think, then, that if I had been here, the evening would have been equally pleasant, and Marian equally happy in her singing?”

“Dont you like Marian’s singing?”

“Could you not have refrained from that most indiscreet question?”

“I ought to have.  It came out unawares.  Do not answer it.”

“That would make matters worse.  And there is no reason whatever why the plain truth should not be told.  When I was a child I heard every day better performances than Marian’s.  She believes there is something pretty and good in music, and patronizes it accordingly to the best of her ability.  I do not like to hear music patronized; and when Marian, lovely as she is, gives her pretty renderings of songs which I have heard a hundred times from singers who knew what they were about, then, though I admire her as I must always, my admiration is rather increased than otherwise when she stops; because then I am no longer conscious of a deficiency which even my unfortunate sister could supply.”

“Your criticism of her singing sounds more sincere than your admiration of her loveliness.  I am not musician enough to judge.  All I know is that her singing is good enough for me.”