It is a fascinating thing to see a lovely woman in wrath, and probably Mr. Waddy thought for the moment more of how startlingly bright were the eyes of the lady, and how quick her heart’s blood leaped to her vivid cheek, than of the cause that made the eyes electric and the cheek burning. “My wife knows all the old songs, Ira,” said Tommy, also gazing admiringly, but deeming it discreet to change the subject, “and I’ve not forgotten my stock. We’ll have the old first, as old wine should come, and then, if satiety does not interfere, you shall have new music till you cry _basta_.” “Yes,” agreed Cecilia, the little storm over in an instant, “I’ve learnt all your old favourites, Mr. Waddy. We have always expected you and determined to make you forget your sad absence,” and then, as if she had been too frank and had betrayed some confidence of husband and wife, she shrank a little and folded into herself like a mimosa leaf. “Thank you,” said Mr. Waddy simply. So they had music. Mrs. Tootler’s voice was a pearly soprano of more marked tenderness and sentiment than you would have expected from her blithesomeness of manner. Tommy’s was a barytone, strong and rich; it rolled out of the happy little man in a careless way, perpetually making musical ten-strikes. Mr. Waddy sometimes contributed a bass note, deep as an oubliette. But it was his part to assist passively rather than actively at the concert. He would have listened quite forever, but at last the husband detected huskiness and said punch. Thereupon he brewed a browst--tumblers for the men, a wineglass for the lady. They partook by the rising moonlight. “What are your plans?” asked Tommy. “You will stay with us a week, or a month, or five years?” “I have no plans except to buy the black colt to-morrow. I expect pretty soon an English friend, and have promised to look up the lions with him. Apropos, perhaps you can put him in the way of seeing your Boston dons. He is an accomplished fellow, naturalist, man of science, charming companion, and brave soldier.” “He will find the Boston dons rather slow,” said Tommy; “there is nothing soldierly about them. A respectably studious and rather dyspeptic set. Quite conventional and conscious of European influence. But here’s to the midnight moon!” he added, as that gibbous deity cleft the clouds and seemed sailing upward through their stationary masses. “One can see almost heaven and the angels!”