"Brava! brava!" says Percy Sibwright. Does Mr. Clive Newcome say
nothing? His back is turned to the piano, and he is looking with all his
might into the eyes of Miss Sherrick.
Percy sings a Spanish seguidilla, or a German lied, or a French romance,
or a Neapolitan canzonet, which, I am bound to say, excites very little
attention. Mrs. Ridley is sending in coffee at this juncture, of which
Mrs. Sherrick partakes, with lots of sugar, as she has partaken of
numberless things before. Chicken, plovers' eggs, prawns, aspics,
jellies, creams, grapes, and what-not. Mr. Honeyman advances, and with
deep respect asks if Mrs. Sherrick and Miss Sherrick will not be
persuaded to sing? She rises and bows, and again takes off the French
gloves, and shows the large white hands glittering with rings, and,
summoning Emily her daughter, they go to the piano.
"Can she sing," whispers Mrs. Mackenzie, "can she sing after eating so
much?" Can she sing, indeed! Oh, you poor ignorant Mrs. Mackenzie! Why,
when you were in the West Indies, if you ever read the English
newspapers, you must have read of the fame of Miss Folthorpe.
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