Many a time Mary Foley had played and sung to five times their number with the confidence born of appreciation and success. Mary’s singing and playing of old Irish songs was declared “to beat all,” and with her own neighbours she enjoyed a far higher reputation than Madame Melba herself. But here were different listeners, and a different atmosphere. The girl’s heart felt like lead; her hands were so icy cold she could scarcely hold the footman’s concertina. She glanced timidly about her, half hoping that her cousin Dudley would befriend her or beg her off; but Dudley had dined, he was at peace with his digestion--he was not disposed to exert himself, and if Lady Mulgrave did hustle the girl a bit, it would do her good! She struck a few shaky chords and endeavoured to find her voice and courage. What could she give them? “The three-leaved Shamrock”? “The stone outside Dan Murphy’s door”? “The exile of Erin”? Yes. She looked over towards Dudley, hoping for at least his moral support; but there he lounged in the background, with his glass in his eye, sniggering at some remark of Mrs. Fullerton’s. “So much for a cousin!” she thought, with deep resentment. “He would stand by and see her baited, the same as a rabbit among the coursing dogs of a Sunday!” At last she began; her sweet full notes were tremulous, and occasionally inaudible. With painful difficulty she brought out the opening bars: “There came to the beach, a poor exile of Erin; The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.” The sound of her own voice had given her confidence, and she continued with fuller notes: “Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and Sire----” Here an hysterical titter caused her to pause. Miss Tripp held her handkerchief to her mouth, and Lady Towton was convulsed. The girl stood staring for a whole moment; then, with a gesture of unexpected passion, dashed down the unhappy concertina, saying, “Sing for yerselves!” and escaped from the room. When the commotion, consternation, and amusement, had somewhat subsided, Lady Towton said, in a choked voice-- “I really could not help myself! The _cabin_ door was so appropriate, it was too much for me. I’m really awfully sorry.” “’Pon my word, I think you ought to be,” interrupted Sir Harry brusquely. “She has a beautiful voice,” added Colonel Wildairs. “More than we can say for her accent,” murmured Miss Tripp. He turned his back on her, and went over to Tito, who was arranging the pianola. “Won’t you run after her, Miss Dawson, and take her our thanks and apologies, and see what she is doing?” But Tito found the door locked, and to all her knocking and calling there was no response.