"Silence! One tablespoonful to be taken directly. Hush, softly, not a word;" and he stood over his sister--with a warning index finger held up, while in a deep, thrilling baritone voice Mr Hallam from the bank sang "Treasures of the Deep." A dead silence was preserved, and the sweet rich notes seemed to fill the room and float out where the dewy flowers were exhaling their odours on the soft night air. The words were poetical, the pianoforte accompaniment was skilfully played, and, though perhaps but slightly cultivated, the voice of the singer was modulated by that dramatic feeling which is given but to few, so that the expression was natural, and, without troubling the composer's marks, the song appealed to the feelings of the listeners, though in different ways. "Bravo! bravo!" cried Mr Trampleasure, crossing to the singer. "He has a very fine voice," said Dr Luttrell in a quiet, subdued way; and his handsome face wrinkled a little as he glanced towards the piano. "Yes, yes, it's very beautiful," said Mrs Luttrell, fingering a bracelet round and round, "but I wish he wouldn't, dear; I declare it always makes me feel as if I wanted to cry. Ah! here's Sir Gordon." Pleasant, sweet-faced Mrs Luttrell crossed the room to welcome a new arrival in the person of a remarkably well-preserved elderly gentleman, dressed with a care that told of his personal appearance being one of the important questions of his life. There was a suspicion of the curling tongs about his hair, which was of a glossy black that was not more natural in hue than that of his carefully-arranged full whiskers. There was a little black patch, too, beneath the nether lip that matched his eyebrows, which seemed more regular and dark than those of gentlemen as a rule at his time of life. The lines in his face were not deep, but they were many, and, in short, he looked, from the curl on the top of his head, down past his high black satin stock, well-padded coat, pinched waist, and carefully strapped down trousers over his painfully small patent leather boots, like one who had taken up the challenge of Time, and meant to fight him to the death. "Good evening, Mrs Luttrell. Ah! how do, doctor? My dear Miss Luttrell, I've been seeing your fingers in the dark as I waited outside." "Seeing my fingers, Sir Gordon?" "Yes; an idea--a fancy of mine," said the newcomer, bending over the hand he took with courtly old-fashioned grace. "I heard the music, and the sounds brought the producers before my eyes. Hallam, my dear sir, you have a remarkably fine voice. I've known men, sir, at the London Concerts, draw large incomes on worse voices than that!" "You flatter me, Sir Gordon." "Not at all, sir," said the newcomer shortly. "_I_ never stoop to flatter any one, not even a lady. Miss Luttrell, do I?" "You never flattered me," said Millicent, smiling.