"Oh, here you are!" said Jane. "I'm so glad. I was just saying that I can't sing much, but you sing like a bird."
"Don't believe her," said Lucilla gaily; "she sings all right. But I've no breath left for singing, I had to hurry. To catch a train," she added, looking straight at Jane. And her look said, "That lie is chalked up to you, not to me. It is your fault, not mine, that I am forced to be so untruthful."
But presently she was not too breathless to sing, and she sang folk-songs, because Mrs. Thornton had sung, drawing-room ballads about rosebuds and stars. And now there was no lack of interest—even before she sang. After her first song she was the centre of all things. Then she sang "La dove prenda" with Mr. Thornton, and it went very well; then there were more duets and more solos; and then songs with choruses, old favourites of Jane's and Lucilla's, which the Thorntons also delightfully knew and liked, and altogether it was half-past eleven before they knew where they were.
Only Miss Antrobus, who had not much voice, asked—after "Outward Bound" it was—whether they were quite sure Miss Lucas would not be disturbed by such very robust vocalisation.
"Oh no, she loves it," said Lucilla shamelessly. "Auntie is wonderfully fond of old songs. I often sing them to her just to please her when we are alone. But I hope you're not bored?"
"Oh no," Miss Antrobus assured her. "I'm most interested, I assure you."
This time Lucilla did not desire to hug Miss Antrobus. There was a hint of something. Patronage? Criticism? Suspicion? Antagonism? No, none of these exactly. Yet Lucilla was conscious of something inimical.
"But if she's really fond of John Rochester that accounts," Lucilla told herself, and turned to accede to a request from Mr. Tombs for "My Lady Greensleeves."
"Lucilla is like Sophy Traddles," said Jane. "She knows all the old songs that ever were invented."
