"You are nervous, Mademoiselle Güldmar?" asked Duprèz, noticing her tremor.
"Oh no," she answered brightly. "Nervous? That is to be afraid,--I am not afraid of a storm, but I do not like it. It is a cruel, fierce thing; and I should have wished to-day to be all sunshine--all gladness!" She paused, and her eyes grew soft and humid.
"Then you have been happy to-day?" said Lorimer in a low and very gentle voice.
She smiled up at him from the depths of the velvet lounge in which Errington had placed her.
"Happy? I do not think I have ever been so happy before!" She paused, and a bright blush crimsoned her cheeks; then, seeing the piano open, she said suddenly "Shall I sing to you? or perhaps you are all tired, and would rather rest?"
"Music is rest," said Lorimer rather dreamily, watching her as she rose from her seat,--a tall, supple, lithe figure,--and moved towards the instrument. "And your voice. Miss Güldmar, would soothe the most weary soul that ever dwelt in clay."
She glanced round at him, surprised at his sad tone.
"Ah, you are very, very tired, Mr. Lorimer, I am sure! I will sing you a Norse cradle-song to make you go to sleep. You will not understand the words though--will that matter?"
"Not in the least!" answered Lorimer, with a smile. "The London girls sing in German, Italian, Spanish, and English. Nobody knows what they are saying: they scarcely know themselves--but it's all right, and quite fashionable."
Thelma laughed gaily. "How funny!" she exclaimed. "It is to amuse people, I suppose! Well,--now listen." And, playing a soft prelude, her rich contralto rippled forth in a tender, passionate, melancholy melody,--so sweet and heart-penetrating that the practical Macfarlane sat as one in a dream,--Duprèz forgot to finish making the cigarette he was daintily manipulating between his fingers, and Lorimer had much ado to keep tears from his eyes. From one song she glided to another and yet another; her soul seemed possessed by the very spirit of music. Meanwhile Errington, in obedience to an imperative sign from old Güldmar, left the saloon, with him,--once outside the doors the bonde said in a somewhat agitated voice-"I desire to speak to you, Sir Philip, alone and undisturbed, if such a thing be possible."
"By all means!" answered Philip. "Come to my 'den' on deck. We shall be quite solitary there."