What the deuce did she run away for, when I came in? he thought. If she _is_ amusing, she must make herself useful; for it’s intensely dull, I own, here, in spite of Lucia. Hey, what’s that?
It was a rich, sweet voice, singing a brilliant Italian air, and singing it with an expression that made the music doubly delicious. Stepping out of the French window, Coventry strolled along the sunny terrace, enjoying the song with the relish of a connoisseur. Others followed, and still he walked and listened, forgetful of weariness or tune. As one exquisite air ended, he involuntarily applauded. Miss Muir’s face appeared for an instant, then vanished, and no more music followed, though Coventry lingered, hoping to hear the voice again. For music was the one thing of which he never wearied, and neither Lucia nor Bella possessed skill enough to charm him. For an hour he loitered on the terrace or the lawn, basking in the sunshine, too indolent to seek occupation or society. At length Bella came out, hat in hand, and nearly stumbled over her brother, who lay on the grass.
“You lazy man, have you been dawdling here all this time?” she said, looking down at him.
“No, I’ve been very busy. Come and tell me how you’ve got on with the little dragon.”
“Can’t stop. She bade me take a run after my French, so that I might be ready for my drawing, and so I must.”
“It’s too warm to run. Sit down and amuse your deserted brother, who has had no society but bees and lizards for an hour.”
He drew her down as he spoke, and Bella obeyed; for, in spite of his indolence, he was one to whom all submitted without dreaming of refusal.
“What have you been doing? Muddling your poor little brains with all manner of elegant rubbish?”
“No, I’ve been enjoying myself immensely. Jean is _so_ interesting, so kind and clever. She didn’t bore me with stupid grammar, but just talked to me in such pretty French that I got on capitally, and like it as I never expected to, after Lucia’s dull way of teaching it.”
“Oh, all manner of things. She asked questions, and I answered, and she corrected me.”
“Questions about our affairs, I suppose?”
“Not one. She don’t care two sous for us or our affairs. I thought she might like to know what sort of people we were, so I told her about Papa’s sudden death, Uncle John, and you, and Ned; but in the midst of it she said, in her quiet way, ‘You are getting too confidential, my dear. It is not best to talk too freely of one’s affairs to strangers. Let us speak of something else.’”