"Ask them."

"That's what," cried Alec Murray, "especially the girls."

She hesitated a few moments, evidently meditating rebellion, then
turning to Barney, who was playing softly the air that had been asked
for, "You, too, obey, I see," she said.

"Generally--, always when I like," he replied, continuing to play.

"Oh, well," shrugging her shoulders, "I suppose I must then." And she
began:


"The sun shines bright on de old Kentucky home."


Again that hush fell upon the crowd. The face of the singer, with its
dark, romantic beauty touched with the magic of the moonlight, the voice
soft, mellow, vibrant with passion, like the deeper notes of a 'cello,
supported by the weird chords of Barney's violin, held them breathless.
No voice joined in the chorus. As she sang, the subtle telepathic waves
came back from her audience to the girl, and with ever-deepening passion
and abandon she poured forth into the moonlit silence the full throbbing
tide of song. The old air, simple and time-worn, took on a new richness
of tone colour and a fulness of volume suggestive of springs of
unutterable depths. Even Dick's gay air of command surrendered to the
spell. As before, silence followed the song.