Presently I turned to Mr. Winthrop. He was sitting
erect in his chair, his eyes no longer closed in languorous enjoyment;
when suddenly the measure changed to that delicious passage descriptive
of the creation of birds. Mr. Bovyer's voice was a trifle too deep and
powerful for the air, but it was sympathetic and rarely musical.
He ended as abruptly as he began and glided off into one of those old
English glees,--"Hail, Smiling Morn."
Presently turning around he asked: "Are you tired?"
"We have failed to take note of the flight of time; pray go on," Mr.
Winthrop urged.
"What do you say, Miss Selwyn?"
"I would like if you could make Mr. Winthrop cry. If you tried very hard,
you might touch his fountain of tears."
"Bravo! I will try," he exclaimed amid the general laugh. He touched the
keys, and then pausing a moment, left the instrument.
"I am not in the mood to-night for such a difficult task. I may make the
attempt some stormy winter's night at Oaklands. I believe I have a
standing invitation there," he said, joining us around the fire.
Mr. Winthrop threw me an amazed look, but instantly recovering himself he
said heartily:--"The invitation holds good during the term of our natural
lives. The sooner it is accepted the more delighted we shall be."
Mr. Bovyer bowed his thanks, and coming to my side asked if I would care
to attend another concert the following evening.
"It depends on what the music is to be. I am not so sensitive as Mr.
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