It struck me they were not hitting it off, as one might say, and I took his hand and led him into the drawing-room, where the children were having refreshment between the dances. He made himself at home with them at once, danced a quadrille with the smallest girl, consulted with my governess about the playing of some accompaniments, and amused her by a remark which he made. A man who could make my governess laugh was a man capable of anything. Going to the end of the room, he took a figure of a boy in a Tam o’ Shanter cap out of his bag, and, setting it upon his knee, started absolutely the best entertainment I have seen in the whole course of my existence. We all rested on the floor; my mother stood near the doorway, but I was too much interested in Mr. Cartwright’s performance to pay attention to her. When I did look around once, to get her to join in the applause, I found she was looking hard at my friend, trying, I suppose, to find out how he did it. He began to sing, with the figure making absurd interruptions that sent us all into fits of laughter; my mother, still serious, took a chair. Mr. Cartwright had a good voice; I don’t know whether you would call it a baritone or a tenor, but it was so pleasant to listen to that I half agreed with a sensible girl sitting just in front of me, who said she wished the figure would cease interfering. “Lor’ bless my soul,” said the figure, “thought you’d never get that note, Mr. Cartwright. Only just managed it.” And, in a confidential way, “Aren’t you a rotten singer, though? Don’t you think so, strictly between ourselves? Have you ever tried selling coke? That would be about your mark, you know!” We clapped hands and stamped feet when he finished, and even the girls declared they would rather hear something more from him than go on with the dances. He looked at his watch, and I called out to him that he was all right for his train; he had a quarter of an hour to spare. He came back to the pianoforte. There he touched the keys, making a selection in his mind. “No, no!” cried my mother, as the prelude to a song began. “Please, not that one!” He changed the air at once, and went off into an Irish song. You know the kind of tune—one that makes you keep on the move all the time you are listening. About a ball given by Mrs. O’Flaherty, where the fiddler, once started, declined to stop, and the couples kept on with the hop, hop, hop, so that the dance lasted for I forget how long—three weeks, I think. The couples gradually became tired, the tune went slower and slower. “Mr. Cartwright,” cried my governess, in her high voice, “you ought to be a professional.” “I am a professional,” he replied.