‘Well, I will prefer my request,’ said Hazel.  ’I wish I could say yes, at once.  But how shall I let you now?’

Prim’s hand touched her shoulder at this instant, for delicious notes of two voices stole upon the air from the hiding place of Mrs. Powder’s troup.  The lady’s voice they had heard before; it was one of great power and training, and it came now mingling with a sweet full bass voice.  There was no more talking until the music ended.  It was a fine bit from a German opera.

‘How do you like that?’ Stuart asked.

Hazel drew a deep breath.  ‘Can you tell how you like things?’ she said.

‘Yes!’ said Stuart.  ’After we get that ride I am talking of, I’ll tell you how I liked it.  By the way, I will do myself the honour to be the receiver of your answer concerning it.  But this pleasure—­no,—­yes, I do know why I enjoy it; but it is not because the voices are fine or the music expressive.  Can you guess?’

‘Not for the music, and not for the voices!’ said the girl looking at him.

‘A puzzle, isn’t it?’ said Stuart.  ’No; the music expresses nothing to me—­this sort of music; and voices are voices—­but—­I care only for voices that I know.’

Another little word of warning from Prim behind her,—­’O Hazel, listen!’—­prevented any reply; and Stuart’s ’Yes, this is something, now,’—­made it unnecessary.  And the singing would have made it impossible.  A man’s voice alone; the same rich, full, sweet bass; in the ballad of the “Three Fishers.”  Whether Mr. Nightingale had divined that somebody was near who knew Wych Hazel, or merely acted on general prudential motives, he left his seat and stood a little apart while the ballad was sung.

‘Do you like that?’ Primrose whispered.

‘The voice—­not the ballad.’

‘Nor I either,’ said Prim.  ‘I don’t see what he sings it for.’

There was but a moment’s interval, and then the same voice began another strain, so noble, so deep, so thrilling, that every breath was held till it had done.  The power of the voice came out in this strain; the notes were wild, pleading, agonizing, yet with slow, sweet human melody.  The air thrilled with them; they seemed to float off and lose themselves through the woods; sadly, grandly, the song breathed and fell and ceased.  Wych Hazel did not speak nor stir, nor look, except on the ground, even when the last notes had died away.  Only her little hands held each other very close, her cheeks resting on them.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Primrose softly.  ‘That is Handel.’

Stuart Nightingale presently slid back to his seat; and now there came a stir; the music was discontinued.  In a few minutes Rollo came bringing refreshments; Mr. Nightingale bestirred himself in the same cause; and presently they were all eating ices and fruits.  At which juncture Miss Josephine joined herself to the party, with one or two of her sort, while several gentlemen began to “fall in,” behind Miss Kennedy.