Ingram was
similarly employed, lying back in a cane-bottomed easy-chair, and
placidly watching the smoke ascending to the roof. Sometimes he cast
an eye to the young folks at the other end of the room. They formed a
pretty sight, he thought. Lavender was a good-looking fellow enough,
and there was something pleasing in the quiet and assiduous fashion in
which he waited upon Sheila, and in the almost timid way in which he
spoke to her. Sheila herself sat at the piano, clad all in slate-gray
silk, with a narrow band of scarlet velvet round her neck; and it was
only by a chance turning of the head that Ingram caught the tender
and handsome profile, broken only by the outward sweep of the long
eyelashes.
Love in thine eyes for ever plays,
Sheila sang, with her father keeping time by patting his forefinger on
the table.
He in thy snowy bosom strays,
sang Lavender; and then the two voices joined together:
He makes thy rosy lips his care,
And walks the mazes of thy hair.
Or were there not three voices? Surely, from the back part of the
room, the musicians could hear a wandering bass come in from time
to time, especially at such portions as "Ah, he never--ah, he never
touched thy heart!" which old Mackenzie considered very touching.
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