“Lady Montfort looks well to-night,” said the neighbour of Myra. “And is that Lady Montfort? Do you know, I never saw her before.” “Yes; that is the famous Berengaria, the Queen of Society, and the genius of Whiggism.” In the evening, a great lady, who was held to have the finest voice in society, favoured them with a splendid specimen of her commanding skill, and then Adriana was induced to gratify her friends with a song, “only one song,” and that only on condition that Myra should accompany her. Miss Neuchatel had a sweet and tender voice, and it had been finely cultivated; she would have been more than charming if she had only taken interest in anything she herself did, or believed for a moment that she could interest others. When she ceased, a gentleman approached the instrument and addressed her in terms of sympathy and deferential praise. Myra recognised the knight of the garter who had sat next to Lady Montfort. He was somewhat advanced in middle life, tall and of a stately presence, with a voice more musical even than the tones which had recently enchanted every one. His countenance was impressive, a truly Olympian brow, but the lower part of the face indicated not feebleness, but flexibility, and his mouth was somewhat sensuous. His manner was at once winning; natural, and singularly unaffected, and seemed to sympathise entirely with those whom he addressed. “But I have never been at Hainault,” said the gentleman, continuing a conversation, “and therefore could not hear the nightingales. I am content you have brought one of them to town.” “Nightingales disappear in June,” said Miss Ferrars; “so our season will be short.” “And where do they travel to?” asked the gentleman. “Ah! that is a mystery,” said Myra. “You must ask Miss Neuchatel.” “But she will not tell me,” said the gentleman, for in truth Miss Neuchatel, though he had frequently addressed her, had scarcely opened her lips. “Tell your secret, Adriana,” said Miss Ferrars, trying to force her to converse. “Adriana!” said the gentleman. “What a beautiful name! You look with that flower, Miss Neuchatel, like a bride of Venice.” “Nay,” said Myra; “the bride of Venice was a stormy ocean.” “And have you a Venetian name?” asked the gentleman. There was a pause, and then Miss Neuchatel, with an effort, murmured, “She has a very pretty name. Her name is Myra.” “She seems to deserve it,” said the gentleman. “So you like my daughter’s singing,” said Mr. Neuchatel, coming up to them. “She does not much like singing in public, but she is a very good girl, and always gives me a song when I come home from business.” “Fortunate man!” said the gentleman. “I wish somebody would sing to me when I come home from business.” “You should marry, my lord,” said Mr. Neuchatel, “and get your wife to sing to you. Is it not so, Miss Ferrars? By the by, I ought to introduce you to--Lord Roehampton.” CHAPTER XXXIX