Chapter 11 - Page 2

was opened, and
one after another of the young ladies were invited to exhibit their
prowess. Upon its musical education Slowbridge prided itself. "Few
towns," Miss Pilcher frequently remarked, "could be congratulated upon
the possession of _such_ talent and _such_ cultivation." The Misses
Egerton played a duet, the Misses Loftus sang, Miss Abercrombie
"executed" a sonata with such effect as to melt Miss Pilcher to tears;
and still Octavia had not been called upon. There might have been a
reason for this, or there might not; but the moment arrived, at length,
when Lady Theobald moved toward Miss Belinda with evidently fell intent.

"Perhaps," she said, "perhaps your niece, Miss Octavia, will favor us."

Miss Belinda replied in a deprecatory and uncertain murmur.

"I--am not sure. I really don't know. Perhaps--Octavia, my dear."

Octavia raised a smiling face.

"I don't play," she said. "I never learned."

"You do not play!" exclaimed Lady Theobald. "You do not play at all!"

"No," answered Octavia. "Not a note. And I think I am rather glad of it;
because, if I tried, I should be sure to do it worse than other people. I
would rather," with unimpaired cheerfulness, "let some one else do it."

There were a few seconds of dead silence. A dozen people seated around
her had heard. Miss Pilcher shuddered; Miss Belinda looked down; Mr.
Francis Barold preserved an entirely unmoved countenance, the general
impression being that he was very much shocked, and concealed his disgust
with an effort.

"My dear," said Lady Theobald, with an air of much condescension and some
grave pity, "I should advise you to try to learn. I can assure you that
you would find it a great source of pleasure."

"If you could assure me that my friends would find it a great source of
pleasure, I might begin," answered the mistaken young person, still
cheerfully; "but I am afraid they wouldn't."

It seemed that fate had marked her for disgrace. In half an hour from
that time she capped the climax of her indiscretions.

The evening being warm, the French windows had been left open; and, in
passing one of them, she stopped a moment to look out at the brightly
moonlit grounds.

Barold, who was with her, paused too.

"Looks rather nice, doesn't it?" he said.

"Yes," she replied. "Suppose we go out on the terrace."

He laughed in an amused fashion she did not understand.

"Suppose we do," he said. "By Jove, that's a good idea!"

He laughed as he followed her.