“Oh, you may talk,” said Mrs. Lorraine, with the least expression of contempt in the gray eyes.  “She is singing to gratify herself, not us.”

“Yes, I sometimes go down,” said Sheila in as low a voice as she could manage without falling into a whisper, “and it is such a dismal place.  It is very hard on him to have to work in a big bare room like that, with the windows half blinded.  But sometimes I think Frank would rather have me out of the way.”

“And what would he do if both of us were to pay him a visit?” said Mrs. Lorraine.  “I should so like to see the studio!  Won’t you call for me some day and take me with you?”

Take her with her, indeed!  Sheila began to wonder that she did not propose to go alone.  Fortunately, there was no need to answer the question, for at this moment the song came to an end, and there was a general movement and murmur of gratitude.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Lorraine to the lady who had sung, and who was now returning to the photographs she had left—­“thank you very much.  I knew some one would instantly ask you to sing that song:  it is the most charming of all your songs, I think, and how well it suits your voice, too!”

Then she turned to Sheila again:  “How did you like Lord Arthur Redburn?”

“I think he is a very good young man.”

“Young men are never good, but they may be very amiable,” said Mrs. Lorraine, not perceiving that Sheila had blundered on a wrong adjective, and that she had really meant that she thought him honest and pleasant.

“You did not speak at all, I think, to your neighbor on the right:  that was wise of you.  He is a most insufferable person, but mamma bears with him for the sake of his daughter, who sang just now.  He is too rich.  And he smiles blandly, and takes a sort of after-dinner view of things, as if he coincided with the arrangements of Providence.  Don’t you take coffee?  Tea, then.  I have met your aunt—­I mean, Mr. Lavender’s aunt:  such a dear old lady she is!”

“I don’t like her,” said Sheila.

“Oh, don’t you, really?”

“Not at present, but I shall try to like her.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Lorraine calmly, “you know she has her peculiarities.  I wish she wouldn’t talk so much about Marcus Antoninus and doses of medicine.  I fancy I smell calomel when she comes near.  I suppose if she were in a pantomime, they’d dress her up as a phial, tie a string round her neck and label her ‘POISON.’  Dear me, how languid one gets in this climate!  Let us sit down.  I wish I was as strong as mamma.”

They sat down together, and Mrs. Lorraine evidently expected to be petted and made much of by her new companion.  She gave herself pretty little airs and graces, and said no more cutting things about anybody.  And Sheila somehow found herself being drawn to the girl, so that she could scarcely help taking her hand, and saying how sorry she was to see her so pale and fine and delicate.  The hand, too, was so small that the tiny white fingers seemed scarcely bigger than the claws of a bird.  Was not that slender waist, to which some little attention was called by a belt of bold blue, just a little too slender for health, although the bust and shoulders were exquisitely and finely proportioned?