Part 10 (1/2)

Happily, at this moment, Lady Adela came up, and Lionel most gladly turned aside, for she had evidently something to say to him privately.

”Mr. Moore, I want to introduce you to Mr. Hooper--to Mr. Quincey Hooper--he doesn't seem to know anybody, and I want you to look after him a little--”

”No, no, Lady Adela, you must really excuse me,” said he, in an undertone, but he was laughing all the same. ”I can't, really. I beg your pardon, but indeed you must excuse me. I've just had one dose of literature--a furious lecture about--about I don't know what--oh, yes, immigration into America. And do you know this--that in a generation or two the great national poet of America will be Goethe?”

”What?” said she.

He repeated the statement; and added that there could be no doubt about it, for he had it on Mr. Octavius Quirk's authority.

”Well, it's a good thing to be told,” she said, sweetly, ”for then you know.” And therewithal, as there was a sudden sound of music issuing from the next gallery, she bade Lionel take her to see who had begun--it was Lady Sybil, indeed, who was playing a solo on the violin to an accompaniment of stringed instruments, while all the crowd stood still and listened.

The evening pa.s.sed pleasantly enough. There were one or two courageous amateurs who now and again ventured on a song; but for the most part the music was instrumental. A young lady, standing with her hands behind her back, gave a recitation, and attempted to draw pathetic tears by picturing the woes of a simple-minded chimney-sweep who accidentally killed his tame sparrow, and who never quite held up his head thereafter; he seemed to pine away somehow, until one morning they found him dead, his face downward on the tiny grave in which he had buried his little playfellow. Another young lady performed a series of brilliant roulades on a silver bugle, which seemed to afford satisfaction. A well-known entertainer sat down to the piano and proceeded to give a description of a fas.h.i.+onable wedding; and all the people laughed merrily at the clever and sparkling way in which he made a fool of--not themselves, of course, but their friends and acquaintances. And then Lionel Moore went to his hostess.

”Don't you want me to do anything?” he said.

”You're too kind,” Lady Adela made answer, with grateful eyes. ”It's hardly fair. Still, if I had the courage--”

”Yes, you have the courage,” he said, smiling.

”If I had the courage to ask you to sing Sybil's song for her?”

”Of course I will sing it,” he said.

”Will you? Will you really? You know, I'm afraid those two girls will never give enough force to it. And it is a man's song--if you wouldn't mind, Mr. Moore.”

”Where can I get the music? I'll just look it over.”

Quite a little murmur of interest went through the place when it was rumored that Lionel Moore was about to sing Lady Sybil's ”Soldiers'

Marching Song,” and when he stepped on to the platform at the upper end of the gallery, people came swarming in from the other rooms. Lady Sybil herself was to play the accompaniment--the grand piano being fully opened so as to give free egress to the marshalled chords; and when she sat down to the keyboard, it was apparent that the tall, pale, handsome young lady was not a little tremulous and anxious. Indeed, it was a very good thing for the composer that she had got Lionel Moore to sing the song; for the quite trivial and commonplace character of the music was in a large measure concealed by the fine and resonant quality of his rich baritone notes. The chorus was not much of a success--Lady Sybil's promised accomplices seemed to have found their courage fail them at the critical moment; but as for the martial ditty itself, it appeared to take the public ear very well; and when Lionel finally folded the music together again, there was quite a little tempest of clapping of hands.

Here and there a half-hearted demand for a repet.i.tion was heard; but this was understood to be merely a compliment to Lady Sybil; and indeed Lionel strolled out of the room as soon as his duties were over.

Fortunately no one was so indiscreet as to ask him what he privately thought of the ”Soldiers' Marching Song,” or of its chances of being recommended to the British Army by his royal highness the commander-in-chief.

When at length Lionel thought it was about time for him to slip away quietly from these brilliant, busy, murmuring rooms, he went to bid his hostess privately good-night.

”It was so awfully kind of you, Mr. Moore,” she said, graciously, ”to give us the chance of making Mr. Quirk's acquaintance. He is so interesting, you know, so unconventional, so original in his opinions--quite a treat to listen to him, I a.s.sure you. I've sent him a copy of my poor little book; some time or other I wish you could get to know what he thinks of it?”

”Oh, yes, certainly. I will ask him,” Lionel said; and again he bade her good-night, and took his leave.

But as he was going by the entrance into a smaller gallery, which had been turned into a sort of supper-room (there was a buffet at one end, and everywhere a number of small tables at which groups of friends could sit down, the gentlemen of the party bringing over what was wanted) he happened to glance in, and there, occupying a small table all by himself, was Mr. Octavius Quirk, Lionel at once made his way to him. He found him with a capacious plate of lobster-salad before him, and by the side of that was a large bottle of champagne.

”Going to sit down?” Quirk asked--but with no great cordiality; it was for one person, not for two, that he had secured that bottle.

”No; I dined here,” said Lionel, with innocent sarcasm.

”My dear fellow,” observed the other, earnestly, ”a good dinner is the very best preparation in the world for a good supper.”

”I hear Lady Adela has sent you her book; have you looked at it?” Lionel asked.

”Yes, I have,” said the other, with his mouth full of lobster-salad.