“Well, Mr. Scarum, you can keep your compliments for those who appreciate them.  Come, Lydia, let us go down to breakfast.  The presuming fool!” she exclaimed, as she passed through the hall,—­“he’s worse than the other.  One can put up with a coarse man, if he minds his own business; but an impudent, self-satisfied fellow must be made to know his place.”

“High-strung filly! ha!” (Sforzando.)

“May have to speak to common folks, yet,—­eh, Miss Bridget?”

But farther conversation was interrupted for the time.  Bridget was summoned by the bell to the dining-room, and gallant Number Two was left alone in the parlor.  Meanwhile he surveyed the room as minutely as if it had been a museum,—­trying the rocking-chair, examining pictures, snapping vases with his unpared nails, opening costly books, smelling of scent-bottles, scanning the anti-Macassars and the Berlin-wool mats.  At last he opened the piano, and, in a lamentably halting style, played, “Then you’ll remember me,” using only a forefinger in the performance.  He sang at the same time in a suppressed tone, while he cast agonizing looks at an imaginary obdurate female, supposed to be on the sofa, occasionally glancing with admiration in the mirror at the intensely pathetic look his features wore.

Marcia, meanwhile, had borne the noise as long as she could; so Biddy was dispatched to ask the singer if he would not please to do his practising at some other time.

“Practising, indeed!” exclaimed Number Two, indignantly, upon receiving the message.  “There are people who think I can sing.  These women, likely, a’n’t cultivated enough to appreciate the ’way-up music.  They’re about up to that hand-organ stuff of Sig-ner Rossyni, likely.  They can’t understand Balfy; they a’n’t up to it.  What do you think, Miss Bridget?  Nice figger, that of yours.” (Sotto voce.) “None of the tall, spindlin’, wasp-waisted, race-horse style about you, like that” (pointing down-stairs).  “A good plump woman for me! and a woman with an ear, too!  Now you know what good singin’ is.  I led the choir down to Jorumville ’bove six months b’fore I come down here and went into the law.  But she thinks I was practising!  Ha!” (Sempre staccato.)

“La! did ye?” said the admiring Biddy.

Tinkle, tinkle, again.  Biddy was now summoned to call Charles, and see if he would breakfast.  Number Two made another tour of the room, with new discoveries.  While absorbed in this pleasing employment, the two women passed upstairs.  Marcia could not restrain herself, as she saw him with her favorite bird-of-paradise fan.

“Don’t spoil those feathers, you meddlesome creature!”

“Beg your pardon, Ma’am” (with an elaborate bow).  “Merely admirin’ the colors.  Pretty sort of a thing, this ’ere!  ’Most too light and fuzzy for a duster, a’n’t it?  Feathers ben dyed, most likely?  Willin’ to ’bleege the fair, however, especially one so handsome.” (Rubbing it on his coat-sleeve.) “Guess’t a’n’t got dirty any.”