e more and
didn't care a bit. It was almost as good as a feast in the dormitory.
Then we told funny stories, and asked riddles, and Lady Mary sang coon
songs to her mandoline, and I was enjoying myself simply awfully when
someone said--it was Mr Nash, and I shall never forgive him for it--

"Now it's your turn, Miss Una! Your father is always talking of your
singing, yet we never seem to hear you. Too bad, you know! You can't
refuse to-night, when we are all doing our best to amuse each other.
Now, then, what is it to be?"

I was horrified! I love singing, but it seemed so formidable with no
accompaniment, and no piano behind which to hide my blushes, but the
more I protested, the more they implored, until Vere said quite
sharply--

"For goodness' sake, child, do your best, and don't make a fuss! Nobody
expects you to be a professional!"

"Start ahead, and I'll vamp an accompaniment. It will be better than
nothing," said Lady Mary kindly, and Will whispered low in my ear:
"Don't be nervous. Do your best. Astonish them, Babs!" And I did.
That whisper inspired me somehow, and I sang "The Vale of Avoca,"
father's favourite ballad, pronouncing the words distinctly, as the
singing mistress always made us do at school. I love the words, and the
air is so sweet, and just suits my voice. I always feel quite worked up
and choky when I come to the last verse, but I try not to show it, for
it looks so silly to cry at yourself.

There was quite a burst of applause when I finished. The men clapped
and called out "Bravo! Bravo!" Lady Mary said, "You little wretch!
You do take the wind out of my sails. Fancy having to be bothered to
sing with a voice like that! Gracious! I should never leave off!" and
Vere laughed, and said in her sweetest tones, "But, for pity's sake,
don't turn sentimental, Babs! It's so absurdly out of keeping! Stick
to something lively and stirring--something from the comic operas! That
would be far more in your line, don't you think so, Mr Dudley?"

Will was leaning back on his elbow, resting his head on his hand.

"It's a question of taste," he said lazily. "Some people are fond of
comic operas. Personally, I detest them; but I don't profess to be a
judge. I only know what I like."

"A sentimental ballad, for example?"

"Occasionally. Not always, by any means." He seemed determined not to
give a straight-forward answer, and Vere turned aside with a shrug and
began to talk to