A moment later Chloe rose from the table; and Anstice stole a look at his watch as they passed into the hall.
As though she divined his action Chloe turned to him.
"You will spare time for a cup of coffee? We have not lingered over our lunch."
Anstice hesitated, and Cherry again added her entreaties to the invitation.
"Do stay a little longer, my dear. Iris will have to go in a minute, but I want her to sing me a song first."
"Do you sing, Miss Wayne?" Looking at her firm round throat and deep chest he thought it possible she sang well.
"Yes." She shook her head at Cherry. "But how can I sing after meringues and strawberries, you bad child?"
"You always say that," returned Cherry placidly. "And then you sing most bee-autifully!"
Iris coloured at this obviously genuine compliment and Anstice laughed outright.
"After that testimonial, Miss Wayne, I hope you don't expect me to run away without hearing you!" He turned to his hostess. "I will stay for a cup of coffee with pleasure, Mrs. Carstairs, and you will persuade Miss Wayne to sing, won't you?"
"Certainly." They were in the cool, hyacinth-scented drawing-room by now, and Chloe drew the girl towards the grand piano which stood by one of the big latticed windows. "Sing to us at once, Iris, before you have your coffee. Will you?"
"Of course I will." She seated herself as she spoke. "What shall it be? Cherry, you know all my songs. What do you want to-day?"
After due consideration Cherry gave her verdict for "the song about the lady in the wood;" and although both Mrs. Carstairs and Iris rallied her on the mournfulness of her choice, Cherry stuck to her guns; and to judge from the rapt expression in her big brown eyes as the singer prophesied the lonely and tragic fate of poor unhappy Mélisande, the idea of that fate proved exquisitely soothing to the youthful listener.
Anstice's supposition had been correct. Iris Wayne could sing well. Her voice, a clear mezzo-soprano, had been excellently trained, and in its purity and flexibility gave promise of something exceptional when it should have attained its full maturity. She accompanied herself perfectly, in nowise hampered by the lack of any music; and when she had brought the song to a close, Anstice was sincere in his request for another.
"I've just got some new songs," said Iris, twisting round on the stool to face her hostess. "A book of Indian love-lyrics. Shall I sing you one of those?"