"Then I am
agreeable to you when I sing?"
Agreeable? This was far too tame a word--they all rose from the table
and came towards her, with many assurances of their delight and
admiration; but she put all their compliments aside with a little
gesture that was both incredulous and peremptory.
"You must not say so many things in praise of me," she said, with a
swift upward glance at Errington, where he leaned on the piano regarding
her. "It is nothing to be able to sing. It is only like the birds, but
we cannot understand the words they say, just as you cannot understand
Norwegian. Listen,--here is a little ballad you will all know," and she
played a soft prelude, while her voice, subdued to a plaintive murmur,
rippled out in the dainty verses of Sainte-Beuve--
"Sur ma lyre, l'autre fois
Dans un bois,
Ma main preludait a peine;
Une colombe descend
En passant,
Blanche sur le luth d'ebene"
"Mais au lieu d'accords touchants,
De doux chants,
La colombe gemissante
Me demande par pitie
Sa moitie
Sa moitie loin d'elle absente!"
She sang this seriously and sweetly till she came to the last three
lines, when, catching Errington's earnest gaze, her voice quivered and
her cheeks flushed.
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