d
Winthrop, in a tone which was indulgent as well as comforting--she had
looked so young, so like a child, as she made her complaint.

"So I have been--until now. But now that I have seen you, now that I
have seen Mrs. Harold, I--I don't know." She looked at him wistfully.

This little conversation had gone on while they were all returning
through the hall to the front drawing-room. Manuel, however, who was
with Mrs. Harold, had a plan of his own, he turned boldly aside towards
the closed door of the back drawing-room, his intention being to
establish himself with the charming northern lady upon a certain sofa
which he remembered at the extreme end of that broad apartment; if
isolation were a northern fashion, he would be isolated too. But Mrs.
Carew (with the returning lamp on her mind) saw his hand upon the knob,
and summoned him in haste: "Mr. Ruiz! Mr. Ruiz!"

When he obeyed her call, she begged him fervently to promise to sing for
them immediately that "sweet little air" which it seemed was "such a
favorite" of hers, though when he asked her to define it more clearly,
she was unable to recall its name, the words, or any characteristic by
which he could identify it; however, by this effort of the imagination
the door of the back drawing-room was kept closed, and all her guests
were piloted safely to the front room by the way they had come. The lamp
was in position, only the retreating legs of Pompey were visible through
the dining-room door; the mistress of the house, unused to strategy,
sank into a chair, and furtively passed her handkerchief across her
brow.

Manuel was already tuning the guitar.

"Does he like to sing so soon after--after tea?" said Mrs. Rutherford.

But the handsome youth could sing as well at one time as another. He
looked about him, found a low ottoman and drew it towards the sofa where
Mrs. Harold was sitting, thus placing himself as nearly as possible at
her feet; then he struck a chord or two, and began. He had a tenor voice
(as Winthrop would have said, "of course"); and the voice had much
sweetness. He sang his little love song admirably.

Garda was standing near one of the windows with Winthrop. When the song
was ended, "How old is Mrs. Harold?" she asked, abruptly; that is,
abruptly as regarded subject, her voice itself had no abrupt tones.

"I don't know," Winthrop answered.

"Isn't she your cousin?"

"She is my aunt's niece by marriage; Mr. Rutherford was her uncle."

"Bu