Harry, raging inwardly, heard, and understood very well that the days of her own dominion were numbered. Lady Forsyth understood equally well; but she had passed beyond the raging mood. The song was an old favourite; every note of it laden with associations; and in spite of herself tears started to her eyes. As for Mark, others might understand or not as they pleased. He was singing to an audience of one; to the girl who sat beside him, her uncovered head lifted and half turned away toward the dark sweeping curves of the hills. When the murmur of applause died down she turned to him with the slow lift of her lashes that, conscious or no, thrilled him afresh at each repetition. ‘I didn’t know you could sing like that,’ she said softly. ‘I can’t always,’ he answered, flushing under her implied praise. ‘Sometimes—it just takes hold of me. Don’t you sing yourself? I’m sure you’ve got music in you.’ She suppressed a small sigh. ‘Oh yes. It’s one of my poor little half-fledged talents; useless for want of proper development. My elder sister’s the clever one, and _she_ got all the chances. She found me convenient sometimes for duets.’ ‘Duets? Good. I know plenty. Let’s have a try. What was her line?’ ‘Classical. Mostly German.’ Mark was silent a moment, raking his memory. Then he had an inspiration. ‘Mendelssohn’s “I would that the love”...? Wasn’t that the sort of thing?’ ‘Yes. Very much so.’ ‘Right! We’ll give them a treat. You take the air.’ She shook her head. ‘You’re going much too fast. I never said I’d sing; and—I’ve rather forgotten the words.’ ‘You won’t slip out of it that way!’ he told her; and leaning close he crooned under his breath: ‘“I would that the love I bear thee, My lips in one word could say; That soft word⸺”’ ‘Oh yes, I remember now,’ she cut him short rather abruptly; but a faint colour showed in her cheeks and this time she did not lift her lashes. ‘Very pretty, but drenched with sentiment. That’s the worst of German songs.’ ‘Well, you can’t beat the music of ’em,’ he persisted, rebuffed a little by her tone, and hoping it was assumed for the benefit of Miss Videlle, who was most vexatiously in the way. ‘I’m set on it anyhow. Are you ready?’ Taking her smile for consent he moved one hand, beating time in the air; then, without preliminary, their united voices took up the song. Bel’s, though sweet and true within its range, proved too slight an organ to stand the open-air test, and Mark had need to moderate his full-toned alto accordingly, thereby giving an added effect of tenderness to words and music already sufficiently expressive. And again Lady Forsyth—a most unwilling listener—understood everything far too well. Deliberately she hardened herself against the appeal of the music. For this time she was simply angry—angry as she had never yet been with her son; though, needless to say, she attributed his egregious behaviour entirely to Miss Alison.