smile slipping away from me, though I held on to it with my eyelids, and to know that it was going—going—gone!"
"I am afraid the Pimpernel process is a long one," says Paul, laughing.
While he puts the book back I glance around me. The men look amiable and cheerful in the extreme, as all mankind has a way of doing after dinner—one or two of them sentimental; tears will stand in their eyes by-and-by, if a plaintive ballad is sung. It is not an ennobling reflection that the best of men is better after a good dinner than he was before; and that the hottest lover can be made hotter still by a choice vintage. Miss Lister is going to sing; she spreads out her green skirts, and takes off her bracelets, and clears her throat. Do the birds make any preparations before bursting out in a rush of exquisite song? She sings "Only," and Jack's ridiculous verse comes into my mind as I listen—
Only a face, nothing more;
If ever it owned any legs,
They must have walked out at the door."
Some songs move me, but this one never does. Give me, "When sparrows build," with the yearning cry of the girl's broken heart wailing through it, and "the faded bents o'erspread." Alice sits down and plays glorious "Tam O'Shanter." How the rollicking, dare-devil, spirited notes ring out! How we seem to see the hot pursuit, feel the witch fingers creeping nearer and nearer to the terrified galloping horse! An hour slips away. It has been a charming evening.
"Good-night!" says Paul Vasher, standing before me; we are banished to billiards. Are you going to begin your duties as gooseberry to-morrow morning?"
