But now it was not near nine, and Caterina must sit down to the harpsichord and sing Sir Christopher’s favourite airs from Gluck’s ‘Orfeo’, an opera which, for the happiness of that generation, was then to be heard on the London stage.  It happened this evening that the sentiment of these airs, ‘Che faro senza Eurydice?’ and ’Ho perduto il bel sembiante’, in both of which the singer pours out his yearning after his lost love, came very close to Caterina’s own feeling.  But her emotion, instead of being a hindrance to her singing, gave her additional power.  Her singing was what she could do best; it was her one point of superiority, in which it was probable she would excel the highborn beauty whom Anthony was to woo; and her love, her jealousy, her pride, her rebellion against her destiny, made one stream of passion which welled forth in the deep rich tones of her voice.  She had a rare contralto, which Lady Cheverel, who had high musical taste, had been careful to preserve her from straining.

‘Excellent, Caterina,’ said Lady Cheverel, as there was a pause after the wonderful linked sweetness of ‘Che faro’.  ’I never heard you sing that so well.  Once more!’

It was repeated; and then came, ‘Ho perduto’, which Sir Christopher encored, in spite of the clock, just striking nine.  When the last note was dying out he said—­’There’s a clever black-eyed monkey.  Now bring out the table for picquet.’

Caterina drew out the table and placed the cards; then, with her rapid fairy suddenness of motion, threw herself on her knees, and clasped Sir Christopher’s knee.  He bent down, stroked her cheek and smiled.

‘Caterina, that is foolish,’ said Lady Cheverel.  ’I wish you would leave off those stage-players’ antics.’

She jumped up, arranged the music on the harpsichord, and then, seeing the Baronet and his lady seated at picquet, quietly glided out of the room.

Captain Wybrow had been leaning near the harpsichord during the singing, and the chaplain had thrown himself on a sofa at the end of the room.  They both now took up a book.  Mr. Gilfil chose the last number of the ‘Gentleman’s Magazine’; Captain Wybrow, stretched on an ottoman near the door, opened ‘Faublas’; and there was perfect silence in the room which, ten minutes before, was vibrating to the passionate tones of Caterina.

She had made her way along the cloistered passages, now lighted here and there by a small oil-lamp, to the grand-staircase, which led directly to a gallery running along the whole eastern side of the building, where it was her habit to walk when she wished to be alone.  The bright moonlight was streaming through the windows, throwing into strange light and shadow the heterogeneous objects that lined the long walls Greek statues and busts of Roman emperors; low cabinets filled with curiosities, natural and antiquarian; tropical birds and huge horns of beasts; Hindoo gods and strange shells; swords and daggers, and bits of chain-armour; Roman lamps and tiny models of Greek temples; and, above all these, queer old family portraits—­of little boys and girls, once the hope of the Cheverels, with close-shaven heads imprisoned in stiff ruffs—­of faded, pink-faced ladies, with rudimentary features and highly-developed head-dresses—­of gallant gentlemen, with high hips, high shoulders, and red pointed beards.