“Et maintenant,”—­said Gigue, taking hold of Cicely’s arm and drawing her close up to his knee—­“Comment chante le rossignol?  Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do!  Chantez!”

All the members of the house-party stared,—­they had taken scarcely any notice of Cicely Bourne, looking upon her as more or less beneath their notice—­as a ’child picked up in Paris’—­a ’waif and stray’—­a ’fad of Maryllia Vancourt’s’—­and now here was this wild grey-haired man of renown bringing her into sudden prominent notice.

“Chantez!” reiterated Gigue, furrowing his brows into a commanding frown—­“Do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, si, do!”

Cicely’s dark eyes flashed—­and her lips parted.

“Do—­re—­mi—­sol—–­”

Round and full and clear rang the notes, pure as a crystal bell,—­ and the listeners held their breath, as she made such music of the common scale as only a divinely-gifted singer can.

“Bien!—­tres-bien!” said Gigue, approvingly, with a smile round at the company—­“Mademoiselle Cicely commence a chanter!  Ze petite sera une grande cantatrice!  N’est-ce-pas?”

A stiffly civil wonderment seemed frozen on the faces of Lady Beaulyon and the others present.  Wholly lacking in enthusiasm for any art, they almost resented the manner in which Cicely was thus brought forward as a kind of genius, a being superior to them all.  Gigue sniffed the air, as though he inhaled offence in it.  Then he shook his finger with a kind of defiance.

“Mais—­pas en Angleterre!” he said—­“Ze petite va commencer a Milan--St. Petersburg—­Vienna!  Zen, ze Inglis vill say—­’Ha ha!  Zis prima donna chante pour les Francais, les Italiens, les Russes!—­il faut qu’elle chante pour nous!’ Zen—­zey vill pay ze guinea—­ces commes des moutons!  Zey follow les autres pays—­zey know nosing of ze art demselves!”

Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay coughed delicately.

“Music is so very much overdone in England”—­she said, languidly—­ “One gets so tired of it!  Concerts are quite endless during the season, and singers are always pestering you to take tickets.  It’s quite too much for anyone who is not a millionaire.”

Gigue did not catch this flow of speech—­but Cicely heard it,

“Well, I shall never ask anyone to ‘take tickets’ to hear me!” she said, laughing.  “A famous prima donna never does that kind of thing!”

“How do you know you will be famous?” asked Lady Beaulyon, amused.

“Instinct!” replied Cicely, gaily—­“Just as the bird knows, it will be able to make a nest, so do I know I shall be famous!  Don’t let us talk any more about singing!  Come and see the garden, Gigue!—­I’ll take you round it—­and I want a chat with you.”

The two went off together, much to the relief of the rest of the party.

“What an extraordinary-looking creature!” said Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay—­“Is he quite a gentleman, Maryllia?”

Maryllia smiled.

“He is a gentleman according to my standard,” she said.  “He is honest, true to his friends, and faithful to his work.  I ask nothing more of any man.”