Denis Malster and Leonetta, facing each other in a far corner of the room, with heads so close that they almost touched, and with hands tightly clasped, were playing the old, old game of trying the strength of each other's wrists, each endeavouring to force the other to kneel. It was harmless enough,--simply one of those very transparent and very early attempts that are almost unconsciously made by two young people of opposite sexes, to become decently and interestingly in close touch with each other. Cleopatra's first feeling was one of surprise at Leonetta's being so wonderfully resourceful in engaging the attention of men. When, however, she observed the details of the contest,--the closely gripped hands, the fingers intertwined, the palms now meeting, now parting, and the two smiling faces, Denis Malster's rather attractive figure, appearing to tremendous advantage now, she could not quite see why,--a feeling of uncontrollable alarm took possession of her, and she spread her music with some agitation before her aunt. Miss Mallowcoid played the opening bars, and still the contest in the far corner did not stop. Denis was not even aware that she--Cleopatra--was about to sing. At last Mrs. Delarayne, who had not been blind to what was taking place, felt she must interfere. Cleopatra's first note was already overdue. "Leo, Leo, my dear," she cried, "your sister is going to sing to us." Leonetta turned round, said she was sorry, released her hands, and she and Denis joined the seated group at some distance from the piano. The incident, however, was not over yet; for, just as her sister sang her first note, Leonetta, her eyes sparkling with excitement, and her hands discoloured by the struggle, ejaculated loud enough for everyone to hear, "Denis, you're a fibber. Your hands are like iron too!" Mrs. Delarayne put a finger to her lips, but it was too late. There was a sound of music being roughly folded up, and Cleopatra turned away from the piano. "If you're all going to talk," she said, looking a little pale, "it's no use my singing, is it? I can wait a moment." "Sorry, old girl," Leonetta cried. "It was only me. I'm dumb now." Mrs. Delarayne had risen and was urging her elder daughter back to the piano. Sir Joseph was also trying his hand at persuasion, and when Miss Mallowcoid and Agatha added their prayers to the rest, Cleopatra at last spread her music out again, and the song began. Those, however, who know the swing and gaiety of _Les Epouseuses du Berry_, will hardly require to be told how hopeless was the effect of it when sung by a voice which, owing to recent and unabated vexation, was continually on the verge of tears. Nothing, perhaps, is more thoroughly tragic than a really lively melody intoned by a voice quavering with emotion, and even Sir Joseph, who did not understand a word of the song, was deeply grateful when it was all over.