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.”