“I often doubt it, myself; but I fancy the little Scotchwoman will not be able to satisfy either of us upon that point. How does your highness like her?” asked Coventry of his cousin, who sat near him. “Better than I thought I should. She is well-bred, unassuming, and very entertaining when she likes. She has told us some of the wittiest stories I’ve heard for a long time. Didn’t our laughter wake you?” replied Lucia. “Yes. Now atone for it by amusing me with a repetition of these witty tales.” “That is impossible; her accent and manner are half the charm,” said Ned. “I wish you had kept away ten minutes longer, for your appearance spoilt the best story of all.” “Why didn’t she go on?” asked Coventry, with a ray of curiosity. “You forget that she overheard us last night, and must feel that you consider her a bore. She has pride, and no woman forgets speeches like those you made,” answered Lucia. “Or forgives them, either, I believe. Well, I must be resigned to languish under her displeasure then. On Sydney’s account I take a slight interest in her; not that I expect to learn anything from her, for a woman with a mouth like that never confides or confesses anything. But I have a fancy to see what captivated him; for captivated he was, beyond a doubt, and by no lady whom he met in society. Did you ever hear anything of it, Ned?” asked Gerald. “I’m not fond of scandal or gossip, and never listen to either.” With which remark Edward left the room. Lucia was called out by the housekeeper a moment after, and Coventry left to the society most wearisome to him, namely his own. As he entered, he had caught a part of the story which Miss Muir had been telling, and it had excited his curiosity so much that he found himself wondering what the end could be and wishing that he might hear it. What the deuce did she run away for, when I came in? he thought. If she _is_ amusing, she must make herself useful; for it’s intensely dull, I own, here, in spite of Lucia. Hey, what’s that? It was a rich, sweet voice, singing a brilliant Italian air, and singing it with an expression that made the music doubly delicious. Stepping out of the French window, Coventry strolled along the sunny terrace, enjoying the song with the relish of a connoisseur. Others followed, and still he walked and listened, forgetful of weariness or tune. As one exquisite air ended, he involuntarily applauded. Miss Muir’s face appeared for an instant, then vanished, and no more music followed, though Coventry lingered, hoping to hear the voice again. For music was the one thing of which he never wearied, and neither Lucia nor Bella possessed skill enough to charm him. For an hour he loitered on the terrace or the lawn, basking in the sunshine, too indolent to seek occupation or society. At length Bella came out, hat in hand, and nearly stumbled over her brother, who lay on the grass. “You lazy man, have you been dawdling here all this time?” she said, looking down at him.