Spreading her ample flounces over the carved walnut-wood piano stool, Lady Louisa ran her white fingers rapidly and with some brilliancy of execution—certainly with perfect confidence—over the keys of a sonorous grand piano; while Berkeley stood near, with an air of considerable affectation and satisfaction, to accompany her, his delicate hands being cased in the tightest of straw-coloured kid gloves; and all the room became hushed into well-bred silence, while they favoured us with the famous duet by _Leonora_ and the _Conde di Luna_, "Vivra! Contende il Guibilo." Berkeley acquitted himself pretty well; so well, that I regretted my own _timbre_ tones. But I must confess to being enchanted while Louisa sang; her voice was very seductive, and she had been admirably trained by a good Italian master. I remained a silent listener, full of admiration for her performance, and not a little for the contour of her fine neck and snowy shoulders, from which her maize-coloured opera cloak had fallen. "Lady Loftus," said Berkeley, "your touch upon the piano is like—like——" "What, Mr. Berkeley? Now tax your imagination for a new compliment." "The fingers—haw—of a tenth muse." She uttered a merry laugh, and continued to run those fingers over the keys. "Homely style of thing, the baronet’s dinner," I heard him whisper, as he stooped over her, with a covert smile in his eyes. "Ah, you prefer the continental mode we are adopting so successfully in England?" "The dinner _à la Russe_; exactly." "Ah, you will get dinners enough of that kind in the Crimea, more than you may have appetite for," she replied, with a manner so quiet, that it was difficult to detect a little satire. "Most likely," drawled Berkeley, as he twirled his moustaches, without seeing the retort to his bad taste; and then, without invitation, the fair musician gave us a song or two from the "Trovatore;" till her watchful mother advancing, contrived to end her performance, and, greatly to my satisfaction, marched her into the outer drawing-room. "Cora must sing something now," said I; "her voice has long been strange to me." "I cannot sing after Lady Loftus’s brilliant performance," she said, nervously and hurriedly. "Don’t ask me, pray, Newton, dear."