ntion. Mrs. Ridley is sending in coffee at this juncture, of which
Mrs. Sherrick partakes, with lots of sugar, as she has partaken of
numberless things before. Chicken, plovers' eggs, prawns, aspics,
jellies, creams, grapes, and what-not. Mr. Honeyman advances, and
with deep respect asks if Mrs. Sherrick and Miss Sherrick will not be
persuaded to sing? She rises and bows, and again takes off the French
gloves, and shows the large white hands glittering with rings, and,
summoning Emily her daughter, they go to the piano.

"Can she sing," whispers Mrs. Mackenzie, "can she sing after eating so
much?" Can she sing, indeed! Oh, you poor ignorant Mrs. Mackenzie!
Why, when you were in the West Indies, if you ever read the English
newspapers, you must have read of the fame of Miss Folthorpe. Mrs.
Sherrick is no other than the famous artist, who, after three years of
brilliant triumphs at the Scala, the Pergola, the San Carlo, the opera
in England, forsook her profession, rejected a hundred suitors, and
married Sherrick, who was Mr. Cox's lawyer, who failed, as everybody
knows, as manager of Drury Lane. Sherrick, like a man of spirit, would
not allow his wife to sing in public after his marriage; but in
private society, of course, she is welcome to perform: and now with her
daughter, who possesses a noble contralto voice, she takes her place
royally at the piano, and the two sing so magnificently that everybody
in the room, with one single exception, is charmed and delighted; and
that little Miss Cann herself creeps up the stairs, and stands with Mrs.
Ridley at the door to listen to the music.

Miss Sherrick looks doubly handsome as she sings. Clive Newcome is in
a rapture; so is good-natured Miss Rosey, whose little heart beats with
pleasure, and who says quite unaffectedly to Miss Sherrick, with delight
and gratitude beaming from her blue eyes, "Why did you ask me to sing,
when you sing so wonderfully, so beautifully, yourself? Do not leave
the piano, please--do sing again!" And she puts out a kind little
hand towards the superior artist, and, blushing, leads her back to the
instrument. "I'm sure me and Emily will sing for you as much as you
like, dear," says Mrs. Sherrick, nodding to Rosey good-naturedly. Mrs.
Mackenzie, who has been biting her lips and drumming the time on a
side-table, forgets at last the pain of being vanquished in admiration
of the conquerors. "It was cruel of you not to tell us, Mr. Honeyman,"
she says,