'I'll do my best, Rosamond. But you don't think it would be a dangerous
experiment, do you?'

Lady Tallant laughed, and told Captain Vereker Wells to take her to the
piano.

'YOU know that Biddy does a lot of mischief when she sings,' said the
Governor's wife, sitting down in Lady Bridget's vacant place beside Mrs
Gildea. Colin McKeith, still on the outskirts with his chair, stood
leaning upon it, watching the performer.

The piano was in such a position that Lady Bridget faced him.

A vain man might have fancied that she was singing at him, and that the
by-play of her song--the sudden eye-brightenings, the little twists of
her mouth, the head gestures, were for his particular benefit.

She was singing one of the Neapolitan folk-songs which one hears along
the shores of the Mediterranean beyond Marseilles--a love song.

Most people know that particular love-song. Lady Bridget gave it with
all the tricks and all the verve and whimsical audacity of a born
Italian singer. Well, she was Italian--on one side at least, and had
inherited the tricks and a certain quality of voice, irresistibly
catching. And she looked captivating as she sang--the small pointed
face within its frame of reddish-brown hair, the strange eyes, the
expressive red lips, alive with coquetry. The men--even the old
politicians, listened and stared, quite fascinated.