Colonel Dashwood, and sometimes caught her lively
repartees.

Lady Geraldine was rather tame, and not even pretty; it was up hill work
talking to her, and he was just in the humour for a chaffing match with
cousin Kate. After dinner it was just the same: she was surrounded by
men, and Lady Geraldine, the only other girl, sat apart, with rather a
plaintive, neglected look.

"Why can't she talk to some of those old women?" thought Harry. But he
felt bound to try and amuse her, and, after a little desultory
conversation, ingeniously evaded the necessity of boring himself further
by asking her to sing. She complied very amiably, and, as he stationed
himself near to turn over, saw it was one of Bluebell's songs. Lady
Geraldine had been well taught, and sang accurately; but, oh! the
contrast of the thin, piping voice and expressionless delivery to the
rich tones and almost dramatic fervour with which Bluebell poured forth
her "native wood-notes wild"! Then Kate came to the front, followed by a
devoted cavalier, who took her gloves and fan, and was forthwith
despatched in search of a very particular manuscript book somewhere in
the half.

_En attendant_ she rattled off a sparkling French _chansonnette_ with
such _elan_ that every man in the room, musical or otherwise, was soon
round the piano. Her voice was harsh and wiry; but there was an oddity
and originality in her style, while she pronounced the words with a
vehement clearness, that drove their meaning home to the dullest ear. Mr.
Hornby returned with the manuscript book, fastened by a patent lock,
and ornamented with an elaborate monogram.

"I never keep any songs that other people have, so I am obliged to guard
my _specialites_ under lock and key,"--and she held out her arm to
Colonel Dashwood to unclasp a bracelet, the medallion of which opened on
touching a spring, and disclosed a gold key.

Colonel Dashwood retained the wrist while pretending to examine this
miracle, and Kate shot one of her dangerous glances out of half-closed
eyes.

A personal assault upon Dashwood would have been consonant to Harry's
feelings at the moment. He was not yet quite proof against twinges of
jealousy about cousin Kate, who was now turning over the leaves of her
book with an unconscious air.

"This song Mr. Forsyth brought me from Mexico. Such crabbed copying, only
an expert could read it; so I merely scribbled down the words, and made
him sing the air till I had caught it. Tha