Good Books

She heard the sigh, and turned round on the music-stool
laughing.
"Are you so tired, or sad, or what is it?" she asked merrily. "It is too
melancholy a tune? And I was foolish to sing it,--because you cannot
understand the meaning of it. It is all about love,--and of course love
is always sorrowful."
"Always?" asked Lorimer, with a half-smile.
"I do not know," she said frankly, with a pretty deprecatory gesture of
her hands,--"but all books say so! It must be a great pain, and also a
great happiness. Let me think what I can sing to you now,--but perhaps
you will yourself sing?"
"Not one of us have a voice, Miss Gueldmar," said Errington. "I used to
think I had, but Lorimer discouraged my efforts."
"Men shouldn't sing," observed Lorimer; "if they only knew how awfully
ridiculous they look, standing up in dress-coats and white ties, pouring
forth inane love-ditties that nobody wants to hear, they wouldn't do it.
Only a woman looks pretty while singing."
"Ah, that is very nice!" said Thelma, with a demure smile.


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