As they grew up the intimacy continued.  Kate would make use of him as an escort, and allow him to kiss her as a cousin.  She also confided to him her love affairs, which at first made him very angry, but afterwards he sometimes suspected their veracity.

Harry could not help watching her at dinner.  He saw the amused face of her neighbour, Colonel Dashwood, and sometimes caught her lively repartees.

Lady Geraldine was rather tame, and not even pretty; it was up hill work talking to her, and he was just in the humour for a chaffing match with cousin Kate.  After dinner it was just the same:  she was surrounded by men, and Lady Geraldine, the only other girl, sat apart, with rather a plaintive, neglected look.

“Why can’t she talk to some of those old women?” thought Harry.  But he felt bound to try and amuse her, and, after a little desultory conversation, ingeniously evaded the necessity of boring himself further by asking her to sing.  She complied very amiably, and, as he stationed himself near to turn over, saw it was one of Bluebell’s songs.  Lady Geraldine had been well taught, and sang accurately; but, oh! the contrast of the thin, piping voice and expressionless delivery to the rich tones and almost dramatic fervour with which Bluebell poured forth her “native wood-notes wild”!  Then Kate came to the front, followed by a devoted cavalier, who took her gloves and fan, and was forthwith despatched in search of a very particular manuscript book somewhere in the half.

En attendant she rattled off a sparkling French chansonnette with such elan that every man in the room, musical or otherwise, was soon round the piano.  Her voice was harsh and wiry; but there was an oddity and originality in her style, while she pronounced the words with a vehement clearness, that drove their meaning home to the dullest ear.  Mr. Hornby returned with the manuscript book, fastened by a patent lock, and ornamented with an elaborate monogram.

“I never keep any songs that other people have, so I am obliged to guard my specialites under lock and key,”—­and she held out her arm to Colonel Dashwood to unclasp a bracelet, the medallion of which opened on touching a spring, and disclosed a gold key.

Colonel Dashwood retained the wrist while pretending to examine this miracle, and Kate shot one of her dangerous glances out of half-closed eyes.

A personal assault upon Dashwood would have been consonant to Harry’s feelings at the moment.  He was not yet quite proof against twinges of jealousy about cousin Kate, who was now turning over the leaves of her book with an unconscious air.

“This song Mr. Forsyth brought me from Mexico.  Such crabbed copying, only an expert could read it; so I merely scribbled down the words, and made him sing the air till I had caught it.  That Charley Dacre got from a boatman at Venice; and this little Troubadour thing” (sentimentally) “was composed by a friend of mine, who has promised never to let any one possess it but myself.”