“Oh, nonsense!  Do you think our Admirable Crichton could go wrong?”

“I don’t know.  If he ever does, he’ll go a tremendous cropper.”

“Well, Mr. De Burgh, if you would like to go in and win, you had better make the running now.  Once she ‘comes out’ in town, you will find a host of competitors.”

“Ha!  I suppose you think a rugged fellow like me would have little or no chance with the curled darlings of May Fair and South Kensington?” Mrs. Ormonde looked down on her fan, but did not speak.  De Burgh laughed.  “Who is going to bring her out?” he asked.

“I am,” with dignity.

De Burgh’s reply was short and simple.  He said, “Oh!” and the interjection (is there an interjection now?—­I am not young enough to know) brought the color to Mrs. Ormonde’s cheek and a frown to her fair brow.  “The young lady is, on the whole, original,” he continued.  “She does not care to be presented.”

“Do you believe her?  I don’t.  She only said so from love of contradicting.”

“Yes, I believe her; she does not care about it now; but she will probably get the court fever after a plunge into London life.  Who is singing?—­that is something different from the penny whistling Lady Alice gives us.”

“Why it must be Katherine!  It is the first time she has sung since she came.  She is always afraid of breaking down, she says.  I don’t believe she has sung since the death of her mother.”  De Burgh’s only reply was to walk into the next room.  Leaving Mrs. Ormonde in a state of irritation against him, Katherine, and the world in general.

Katherine was singing a gay Neapolitan air.  She had a rich, sympathetic voice, and sang with arch expression.

Errington stood beside her, and Lady Alice, the rector’s wife and one or two other guests, were grouped round.

“Thank you.  That is thoroughly Italian.  You must have studied a good deal,” said Errington, who rather liked music, and was accustomed to the best.

“Very nice indeed,” added Lady Alice.  “Very nice” was her highest praise.  “I should like to learn the song.”

“I do not think it would suit you,” observed Errington.

“Why, Katherine, I had no notion you could ‘tune up’ in this way,” cried Colonel Ormonde.  “Give us another, like a good girl; something English—­’Robin Adair.’  There was a fellow in ‘ours’ used to sing it capitally.”

“I cannot sing it, Colonel Ormonde.  I am very sorry.”

“Oh, Katherine!  I have heard you sing it a hundred times,” cried Mrs. Ormonde, joining them.  “Why, it was a great favorite with poor dear Mrs. Liddell.”

“I cannot sing it, Ada,” repeated Katherine, quick and low.  As she spoke she caught Errington’s eyes.

“No one ought to dictate to a songstress,” he said, very decidedly.  “Give us anything you like, so long as you sing.”

Kate bent her head, feeling that he understood her, and her hands wandered over the keys for a minute; then, with a glance at Colonel Ormonde, she began “Jock o’ Hazeldean.”