“All right. See here: you need only play these three chords. When one sounds wrong, play another. Youll learn it in a moment.” Marmaduke’s voice was not so fresh, nor his fun so spontaneous, as at Wandsworth; but they were not critical enough to appreciate the difference: they laughed like children at him. Elinor was asked to play; but she would not: she had renounced that folly, she said. Then, at Douglas’s request, Marian sang, in memory of Wandsworth, “Rose, softly blooming.” When she had finished, Elinor asked for some old melodies, knowing that Marian liked these best. So she began gaily with The Oak and the Ash and Robin Adair. After that, finding both herself and the others in a more pathetic vein, she sang them The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington, and The Banks of Allan Water, at the end of which Marmaduke’s eyes were full of tears, and the rest sat quite still. She paused for a minute, and then broke the silence with Auld Robin Gray, which affected even Douglas, who had no ear. As she sang the last strain, the click of a latchkey was heard from without. Instantly she rose; closed the pianoforte softly; and sat down at some distance from it. Her action was reflected by a change in their behavior. They remembered that they were not at home, and became more or less uneasily self-conscious. Elinor was the least disturbed. Conolly’s first glance on entering was at the piano: his next went in search of his wife. “Ah!” he said, surprised. “I thought somebody was singing.” “Oh dear no!” said Elinor drily. “You must have been mistaken.” “Perhaps so,” said he, smiling. “But I have been listening carefully at the window for ten minutes; and I certainly dreamt that I heard Auld Robin Gray.” Marian blushed. Conolly did not seem to have been moved by the song. He was alert and loquacious: before he had finished his greeting and apology to Douglas, they all felt as little sentimental as they had ever done in their lives. Marian, after asking whether he had dined, became silent, and dropped the pretty airs of command which, as hostess, she had worn before. “Have you any news?” said Marmaduke at last. “Douglas knows the whole business. We are all friends here.” “Only what we expected,” said Conolly. “Affairs are exactly as they were. I called to-day at her address—” “How did you get it?” said Marmaduke. “I wrote for it to her at the theatre.” “And did she send it?” “Of course. But she did not give me any encouragement to call on her, and, in fact, evidently did not want to see me. Her appearance has altered very much for the worse. She is a confirmed dipsomaniac; and she knows it. I advised her to abstain in future. She asked me, in her sarcastic, sisterly way, whether I had any other advice to give her. I told her that if she meant to go on, her proper course was to purchase a hogshead of brandy; keep it by her side; and condense the process of killing herself, which may at present take some years, into a few days.”