After this the conversation flagged.  Mrs. Fairfax grew loquacious under the influence of sherry, but presently a reaction set in, and she began to yawn.  Miss McQuinch, when her turn came, played worse than before, and the audience, longing for another negro melody, paid little attention to her.  Marian sang a religious song, which was received with the respect usually accorded to a dull sermon.  The clergyman read a comic essay of his own composition, and Mrs. Fairfax recited an ode to Mazzini.  The concertinists played an arrangement of a quartet by Onslow.  The working men and women of Wandsworth gaped, and those who sat near the door began to slip out.  Even Miss McQuinch pitied them.

“The idea of expecting them to be grateful for an infliction like that!” she said.  “What do people of their class care about Onslow’s quartets?”

“Do you think that people of any class, high or low, would be gratified by such an entertainment?” said Conolly, with some warmth.  No one had sufficient spirit left to reply.

At last the concertinists went home, and the reading drew to a close.  Conolly, again accompanied by Marian, sang “Tom Bowling.”  The audience awoke, cheered the singer heartily, and made him sing again.  On his return to the green-room, Miss McQuinch, much affected at the fate of Bowling, and indignant with herself for being so, stared defiantly at Conolly through a film of tears.  When Marmaduke went out, the people also were so moved that they were ripe for laughter, and with roars of merriment forced him to sing three songs, in the choruses of which they joined.  Eventually the clergyman had to bid them go home, as Mr. Lind had given them all the songs he knew.

“I suppose you will not come with us, Duke,” said Marian, when all was over, and they were preparing to leave.  “We can drop you at your chambers if you like; but you will have to sit on the box.  Mrs. Leith Fairfax, George, Nelly, and I, will be a carriageful.”

Marmaduke looked at his watch.  “By Jove!” he cried, “it is only ten.  I forgot how early we began to-night.  No thank you, Marian:  I am not going your way; but you may take the banjo and keep it until I call.  Ta ta!”

They all went out together; and the ladies, followed by the clergyman, entered their carriage and drove away, leaving Marmaduke and Conolly standing on the pavement.  Having shared the success of the concert, each felt well disposed to the other.

“What direction are you going in?” said Marmaduke.

“Westminster Bridge or thereabouts,” replied Conolly.  “This place is rather out of the way.”

“Have you anything particular to do before you turn in for the night?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Then I’ll tell you what it is, old man.  Lets take a hansom, and drive off to the Bijou.  We shall just be in time to see Lalage Virtue in the burlesque; and—­look here!  I’ll introduce you to her:  youre just the sort of chap she would like to know.  Eh?”