“Dear me, how amusing!”--with a sarcastic lifting of the brows; and she replaced her cigarette in her mouth, and took a whiff. “I hear you are tremendous fun,” she drawled. “Who says so?” “Oh, some one--Dudley I think; but it does not matter. Would you mind reaching me that cushion? Thanks. Now you might fetch me another of those excellent caviare sandwiches.” * * * * * The following morning was wet--a hopeless day; and card-tables were set at eleven. People played till lunch, from lunch till tea, from tea till dinner. After dinner Lady Boxhill said-- “Lottie my dear, my brain feels in a sort of pulp; my ideas are mixed; I’ve played seventeen rubbers to-day. Do let us have some parlour tricks, or music, as a sort of rest cure.” “Oh, very well, if you like. Yes, Tito”--turning to her daughter--“go and beat up recruits”--and she once more settled herself comfortably among her cushions. Presently Tito came back, and proclaimed-- “No performance! The Prince has a cold, Lady Boxhill says, and Mrs. Folly simply won’t; she is sitting in the little back room with Dudley.” Lady Mulgrave muttered something that may, or may not, have been, “Selfish pig!” “And,” continued Tito, spreading out her hands, “there is no one else.” “Unless we have the pianola?” suggested Lady Mulgrave. “No, no!” cried Sir Harry Coxford, “I like to look at the fair performer. The pianola is so mechanical, and it does not _sing_.” “I believe the housekeeper has a gramophone,” put in Tito; “it sings ‘I won’t play in your yard.’” “Housekeeper and gramophone. That reminds me,” murmured Lady Mulgrave, “where is Joseline? Tito, did not your father say she sang, and had a lovely voice?” Then, with a laugh, she added, “She can borrow the footman’s concertina!” “Mother,” remonstrated Tito, “please don’t ask her. I am sure she would be too shy. She would hate it!” “Nonsense! Tell her she must! There is nothing to alarm her. Stay--where is she? The library, I suppose. Then I’ll go myself,” said Lady Mulgrave, rising with unusual energy; and as she swept out of the room in search of her victim, she promised herself that the forthcoming performance would prove a novelty, a draw, and a good joke. Already it was evident to some of her ladyship’s guests, that they might laugh at the wild Irish girl with impunity, and in spite of all Joseline’s efforts in the way of humble conciliation, her stepmother treated her, in private, as a species of domesticated savage. Whatever blandishments or arguments her ladyship had used, proved successful, for in less than ten minutes a white and stricken figure, clutching a concertina, stood up and faced a critical, and secretly scornful audience.