"
Severne assented dryly, and made him a shrewd return for his courtesy.
Zoe had a brave rose in her black hair. He gave her one rapid glance of
significance, and sung a Scotch song, almost as finely as it could be
sung in a room:
"My love is like the red, red rose That's newly sprung in June; My love
is like a melody That's sweetly played in tune."
The dog did not slur the short notes and howl upon the long ones, as did
a little fat Jew from London, with a sweet voice and no brains, whom I
last heard howl it in the Theater Royal, Edinburgh. No; he retained the
pure rhythm of the composition, and, above all, sung it with the gentle
earnestness and unquavering emotion of a Briton.
It struck Zoe's heart pointblank. She drew back, blushing like the rose
in her hair and in the song, and hiding her happiness from all but the
keen Fanny. Everybody but Zoe applauded the song. She spoke only with her
cheeks and eyes.
Severne rose from the piano. He was asked to sing another, but declined
laughingly. Indeed, soon afterward he glided out of the room and was seen
no more that night.
Consequently he became the topic of conversation; and the three, who
thought they knew him, vied in his praises.
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