He had sworn never to trust her again, never to have anything to do with her; but how hard it was when he stood by her thus, and felt the charm of her presence, the readiness and courage and support of her little alert soul. “Sing,” she said, firmly, holding down the beginning notes to make a _bruyant_, noisy dash of sound and give him courage. And Dolff sang--like a martyr--giving forth the uproarious, would-be fun of the words as if they were a psalm, stumbling over every second line, losing his place, forgetting what came next. The audience laughed behind them audibly, noisily, as indeed was right enough, and the effect intended by the song. But it was not at the song they laughed, but at the singer and his ludicrous gravity, and the embarrassment which was freely attributed to temper, both by his mother and sister. Mrs. Harwood was a little offended at last by the laughter of the others though it was an absurd performance. A woman soon becomes weary of ridicule when called forth by a child of her own. “You are very merry,” she said. “I never heard you laugh so much before, Gussy, at your brother’s performance.” “It is very absurd, mamma.” “It is very absurd, I know,” said Mrs. Harwood, with a little rising color, “and I think it was very self-denying of Dolff to consent to make himself ridiculous for Charley’s amusement. You ought to be a little grateful to him instead of making fun of him. Many would not have done it,” said the mother, with a toss upward of her head. “Mamma! why, he used to sing like that every evening when he came home first.” “Don’t you interfere, Ju. If he did, he has seen since that, as he said, it was not appropriate to a drawing-room: and I think it is very good of him, exceedingly self-denying and kind, to do it--when he is more or less making a fool of himself--to amuse Charley.” “Dear Mrs. Harwood,” said Meredith, from his sofa, “I am getting selfish; you are all so good to me. And I am very much obliged to Dolff. I have not laughed so much since--I hope he doesn’t mind. Thanks, Dolff; that’s capital. You’ve sung it like--like the great--what do you call the man?--Barry himself. Let us have another, please.” But Dolff hurried off as soon as he had uttered the last note, with a sense of humiliation which nothing else could have given him--humiliation, contempt of himself, misery which could not be gauged by any moral estimate. He felt as if all that he had ever done to Meredith was fully paid and atoned for by the exhibition he had thus been compelled to make: and that, if this were to go on, he would fly at the fellow’s throat some day and this time make sure work of it.