look questioned Henrietta and she, cautious, simply smiled at him,
with a tilt of the lips, a little raising of the eyebrows, meant to
assure him that she felt as he did.

'If you'd play a pretty tune like that now and then, people would be
glad to listen,' Mrs. Batty went on. 'I'm sure I quite enjoyed it.'

Henrietta's suspicions were confirmed by these eulogies: she knew
already that what Mrs. Batty appreciated, her son would despise, and
she kept her little smile, saying tactfully, 'It certainly made one
want to dance.'

'Can you sing?' he asked.

'Oh, a little.' She became timid. 'I'm going to learn.' With those
vague eyes staring at her, she felt the need of justification. 'Aunt
Caroline says every girl ought to sing. She and Aunt Sophia used to
sing duets.'

'Good heavens!' The exclamation came from the depths of Charles
Batty's being. 'They don't do it now, do they?'

Henrietta's pretty laughter rang out. 'No, not now.' But though she
laughed there came to her a rather charming picture of her aunts in
full skirts and bustles, their white shoulders bare, with sashes round
their waists and a sheet of music shared, their mouths open, their
eyes cast upwards.

'Every girl ought to sing,' Charles quoted, and suddenly darted at
Henrietta the word, 'Why?'