“How terrible!” said Una.

“It was, really, but it was a kind of poetic canine justice, you know.  The Pekingese just stared at Scotty and stared without wagging his tail.  Very impolite, not wagging your tail at a luncheon.  Scotty grew embarrassed and angry and then—­just took him at a gulp.  It was the easiest way out.”

“Or in,” I suggested.

“Scotty is naturally polite.  He never could abide a tail that wouldn’t wag.”

“Nor can I,” said Una with a laugh.  “Dogs’ tails must be meant to wag, or what are they there for?  I wish people had tails and then you could tell whether they were pleasant or not.”

“Some of ’em have,” said Jack.  “Hoofs too—­and horns.”

“I don’t believe that,” she laughed.

Jerry took no animated part in the conversation except when we spoke of Una’s work.  Then he waxed eloquent until Una stopped him.  Mrs. Habberton, I think, watched Jerry a little dubiously as though there was something about him that she couldn’t understand.  Some feminine instinct was waking.  But Una’s cheerfulness and interest in all things was unabated.  We three men smoked—­I, too, for I had lately fallen from grace—­with the ladies’ permission in the drawing-room where Una played upon the piano and sang.  I don’t think that Jerry had known about her music for he had said nothing of it to me, and when her voice began softly: 

    “Oh doux printemps d’autrefois”—­

Massenet’s “Elegie,” as I afterwards learned—­a hush fell over the room and we three men sat staring at the sweet upturned profile, as her lovely throat gave forth the tender sad refrain: 

    “Oh doux printemps d’autrefois, vertes saisons ou
    Vous avez fui pour toujours
    Je ne vois plus le ciel bleu
    Je n’entends plus les chants joyeux des oiseaux
    En emportant mon bonheur,
    O bien aime tu t’en es alle
    Et c’est en vain que revient le printemps.”

She sang on to the end and long after she had finished we still sat silent, immovable as though fearful to break the spell that was upon us.  Jerry was near me and I had caught a glimpse of his face when she began.  He glanced toward her, moved slightly forward in his chair and then sat motionless, the puzzled lines in his face relaxing like those of a person passing into sleep.  When the last long-drawn sigh died away and merged into the drowsy murmur of the night outside, Jerry’s voice broke almost harshly upon the silence.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” he said.  “It’s wonderful, but so—­so hopeless.”

“Something more cheerful, dear, ‘Der Schmetterling,’” put in her mother.

She sang again, this time lightly, joyously, and we re ponded to her mood like harp-strings all in accord.  The room, awakened to melody after the long years of silence, seemed transformed by Una’s splendid gift, a fine, clear soprano, not big nor yet thin or reedy, but rounded, full-bodied and deep with feeling.  Jerry was smiling now, the shadow seemed to have lifted.