you know how to humour the singer, and I need a lot of humouring.”
“Will you give them an encore?” she asked, disregarding the compliment.
“Let me see.” He was looking at her with eyes wonderfully bright. “There is a simple little melody they sing at St. Pierre at the time of the Carnival. I think you could accompany it,” and he hummed the air. “Splendid! That is it. You will think the words pretty. I’ll sing them as they were written, not as the Creoles have changed them.
“‘Petits amoureux aux plumes,
Enfants d’un brillant séjour,
Vous ignorez l’amertume,
Vous parlez souvent d’amour:
Vous méprisez la dorure,
Les salons, et les bijoux;
Vous chérissez la Nature,
"Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!’”
“Go on, go on; don’t stop!” cried Delroy. “There must be another verse. It wouldn’t be a French song if there wasn’t.”
“There is,” and Tremaine laughed; “as usual, one that points a moral. I hadn’t intended to sing it—but-with your permission, Miss Croydon.”
She nodded, as she ran lightly through a little improvised interlude. Drysdale, from the other end of the piano, wondered how Delroy could suddenly develop such poor taste. Tremaine glanced at him, as he began the second verse; then he turned his eyes upon Miss Croydon, smiling.
