"He's sound asleep now," said Sylvie, carefully tucking in the edge of a violet-leaf, which she had been spreading over him as a sort of blanket: "good night!"
"Good night!" I echoed.
"You may well say 'good night'!" laughed Lady Muriel, rising and shutting up the piano as she spoke. When you've been nidnidnodding all the time I've been singing for your benefit! What was it all about, now?" she demanded imperiously.
"Something about a duck?" I hazarded. "Well, a bird of some kind?" I corrected myself, perceiving at once that that guess was wrong, at any rate.
"Something about a bird of some kind!" Lady Muriel repeated, with as much withering scorn as her sweet face was capable of conveying. "And that's the way he speaks of Shelley's Sky-Lark, is it? When the Poet particularly says 'Hail to thee, blithe spirit! Bird thou never wert!'"
She led the way to the smoking-room, where, ignoring all the usages of Society and all the instincts of Chivalry, the three Lords of the
