After dinner Miss Glenlyne asked Janet to sing, and they all sat in the firelight listening to those old Italian airs which seem so full of the memory of youth; and warmed by these familiar melodies—rich and strong as old wine—Miss Glenlyne discoursed of her girlhood and the singers she had heard at His Majesty’s Theatre. ‘I have heard Pasta, my dear, and Catalani, and I remember Malibran’s _début_. Ah, those were grand days for opera! You have no such singers nowadays,’ said Miss Glenlyne, with the placid conviction which is sustained by ignorance. ‘You ought to hear some of our modern singers, Miss Glenlyne,’ replied Lucius; ‘all the great people come to Brighton to sing nowadays.’ ‘I never go out except for an hour in my bath-chair, and I am sure you have no one like Pasta. Your sister has a lovely voice, Mr. Davoren, and a charming style, quite the old school. She reminds me of Kitty Stephens. But as to your having any opera-singer like those I heard in my youth, I can’t believe it.’ When the time drew near for her guests to depart, Miss Glenlyne grew quite melancholy. ‘You have cheered me up so, my dear,’ she said to Lucille. ‘I can’t bear to lose you so quickly. I never took such a fancy to any one—since I lost your mother,’ she added in a whisper. ‘Lor, Miss Glenlyne,’ exclaimed Miss Spilling, unable to command her indignation, ‘you’re always taking fancies to people.’ ‘And you’re always trying to set me against them,’ answered her mistress; ‘but this young lady is my own flesh and blood—I’m not going to be turned against her.’ ‘I’m sure I’ve always spoken from a sense of duty, Miss Glenlyne.’ ‘I suppose you have. But it is your duty to respect my niece. I am an old woman, Mr. Davoren, and I don’t often ask favours,’ continued Miss Glenlyne, appealing to Lucius. ‘I think you ought to indulge my fancy, if you can possibly do so without injury to any one else.’ ‘What is your fancy, Miss Glenlyne?’ ‘I want Lucille to stay with me a little while—till we have learnt to know each other quite well. I am the only near relation she has, and my time cannot be very long now. If she doesn’t gratify her old aunt on this occasion, she may never have the opportunity again. Who can tell how soon I may be called away?’ This from one who was between seventy and eighty was a forcible appeal. Lucius looked at Lucille with an interrogative glance. ‘I should like very much to stay,’ said Lucille, answering the mute question, ‘if you think grandpapa would not be offended or inconvenienced.’ ‘I think I could explain everything to Mr. Sivewright, and that he could hardly object to your stopping here for a few days,’ replied Lucius. ‘Then she shall stay!’ exclaimed Miss Glenlyne, delighted. ‘Spilling, tell Mary to get a room ready for Miss Lucille—the room opening out of mine.’