“I need hardly ask whether Miss Sutherland sings,” he said, when he had repeated all his news to Mr Phipson.
“Very seldom,” replied his sister. Now Mary had a powerful and rather strident contralto voice, which enabled her to sing dramatic music with startling expression and energy. Mrs Phipson, who did not like these qualities, said “Very seldom,” in order to deter her brother from pressing his suggestion. But Mr Phipson, who relished Mary’s performances, and was also fond of playing accompaniments, immediately went to the piano, and opened it.
“I would give anything to hear you,” said Hoskyn, “if you will condescend to sing for such an ignorant audience as me.”
“I had much rather not,” said Mary, shewing signs of perturbation for the first time. “I sing nothing that would amuse you.”
“Of course not,” said he. “I know you don’t sing ballads and such trash. Something Italian, I should like to hear.”
“Come,” said Mr. Phipson. “Give us Che faro senza Euridice, And he began to play it.
Mary, after a moment’s hesitation, resigned herself, and went to the instrument. Mrs Phipson sighed. Hoskyn sat down on the ottoman; leaned attentively forward; and smiled continuously until the song was over, when he cried with enthusiasm: “Bravo! Splendid, splendid! You are quite equal to any professional singer I ever heard, Miss Sutherland. There is nothing like real Italian music after all. Thank you very much: I cannot remember when I enjoyed anything half so well”
“It is not Italian music,” said Mary, resuming her former attitude in the causeuse. “It is German music With Italian words.”
“It might as well be Chinese music fur all he knows about it.” said Mrs Phipson spitefully.
“I know that I enjoyed it thoroughly, at any rate,” said Hoskyn. “I have taken such a fancy to that picture on the wall that I should like to see some of your sketches, if you will favor me so far.”
Mary felt bound to be civil to Mrs Phipson’s brother: else she might have lost patience with Mr Hoskyn. “My sketches are in that book,” she said, pointing to a portfolio. “But they are not intended for show purposes, and if you have no real curiosity to see them, pray do not be at the trouble of turning them over. I do not paint for the sake of displaying an extra accomplishment.
“I quite understand that. It is as natural to you to do all these things as it is for me to walk or sleep. You can hardly think how much pleasure a song or a sketch gives me, because, you see, they are everyday things with you, whereas I could no more paint or sing in Italian than little Nettie upstairs. So, if you’ll allow me, I’ll take a peep. If I bring them over here, you can show them to me better.” And, on this pretext, he got into the causeuse with her at last.
“Fool!” commented Mrs. Phipson through her teeth to Mr Phipson, who smiled and strummed on the piano. Hoskyn meanwhile examined the sketches one by one; demanded a particular account of each; and, when they represented places at which he had been, related such circumstances of his visit as he could recollect, usually including the date, the hotel charges, and particulars of his fellow travelers; as, for instance, that there were two Italian ladies staying there; or that a lot of Russians took the whole of the first floor, and were really very polite people when you came to know them. Mary answered his questions patiently, and occasionally, when he appealed to her for confirmation of his opinions, gave him a cool nod, after each of which he grew more pleased and talkative. He praised her drawings extravagantly; and she, seeing that the worst satisfied him as well as the best, made no further attempt to deprecate his admiration, listening to it with self-possessed indifference. Mrs Phipson yawned conspicuously all the time. Failing to move him by this means, she at last asked him whether he would take supper with them, or return at once to wherever he was staying. He replied that he was staying round the corner at the Langham Hotel, and that he would wait for supper, to which Mrs Phipson assented with a bad grace. Just then Mary, hearing screams from the nursery pretended that she wished to see what was the matter, and left the room. She did not return; and Hoskyn, on going down to supper, was informed, to his heavy disappointment, that she never partook of that meal.
“So you might have saved yourself the trouble of staying, after all,” said Mrs Phipson. “Will you have a wing or a bit of the breast?”
“Anything, please. On my soul, Phipson, I think she is the nicest girl I ever met. She is really very handsome.”
“Handsome!” cried Mrs Phipson, indignantly. Don’t be a fool, Johnny.”
“Why? Don’t you think she is?”
“She isn’t even plain: she is downright ugly.”
“Oh come, Nanny! That is a little too much. What fault can you find with her face?”
“What fault is there that I cannot find? To say nothing of her features, which even you can hardly defend, look at her coarse black hair and thick eyebrows. And then she wears spectacles.”
“No. Not spectacles. Only nosers, Nanny. They are quite the fashion now.”
“Well, whatever you choose to call them. If you consider a pince-nez ornamental, your taste is peculiar.”
“I agree with you, John,” said Mr Phipson. “I admire Mary greatly.”
‘*If she were twice as handsome,” interposed Mrs Phipson, as Hoskyn’s eyes brightened triumphantly, “it would be none the better for you. She is engaged.”
Hoskyn looked at her in dismay. Mr Phipson Seemed surprised.
“Engaged to Adrian Herbert, the artist,” continued Mrs Phipson, “who can talk to her about high art until she fancies him the greatest genius in England: not like you, who think yourself very clever when you have spent an hour in shewing her that you know nothing about it.”
“My dear,” remonstrated Mr Phipson: “that business with Herbert is all broken off. You should be a little careful. He is going to be married to Sczympliça.”
“You may believe as much of that as you please,” said Mrs Phipson. “Even supposing that she really is done with Herbert, there is Jack. A nice chance you have Johnny, with the greatest lion in London for a rival.”
“Annie,” said Mr Phipson: “you are talking recklessly. There is no reason to suppose that there is anything between Mary and Jack. Jack is not — in that sense, at least — a ladies’ man.”
“As to that,” said Hoskyn, “I will take my chance beside any artist that ever walked on two legs. They can talk to her about things that I may not be exactly au fait at; but, for the matter of that, if I chose to talk shop, I could tell her a few things that she would be a long time finding out from them. No, Nanny: the question is, Is she engaged? If she is, then I’m off; and there’s an end of the business. If not, I guess I’ll try and see some more of her, in spite of all the painters and musicians in creation. So, which is it?”
“She is quite free,” said Mr. Phipson. “She was engaged to Herbert; but it was an old arrangement,