first time coming down like a steam-hammer on every note.
Irralie was provoked beyond rhyme or reason. She had made up her mind to think so very well now of the man of whom—on grounds disgracefully slight—she had thought so very, very badly. And it was a fair mind, anxious to do justice always, and to make prompt amends where it failed; but here was this miserable little fly of a voice in the ointment of her new content.
Yet it might have been worse; earlier in the day, at least, she would have thought more of it. For if there was such a thing as a typical bush-ranging bellow, Irralie would then have made certain that she had heard it to-night. As it was, however, when the second hymn had been sung without further atrocities, the girl turned round on her music-stool and revived her spirits by side-long glances at the empty, well-cut sleeve.
"I must apologize for making that row," he said to her, under cover of the men's stampede. "I'm sorry I sang."
