Mrs. Liscombe sang for us. I could not make out what it was she sang,
being unfamiliar with the music and unable to understand the words. She
possessed a voice of some beauty, but was evidently determined to be
classed among the sopranos who are able to soar highest, and when she
took certain notes I experienced a peculiar and most disagreeable
sensation in the back of my neck.
"I wonder if we couldn't bring in a stepladder for her," murmured the
Skeptic in my ear. "It gives me a pang to see a woman, alone and
unassisted, attempt to reach something several feet above her head!"
Mr. Hodgson recited for us with great fervour. He fought a battle on the
drawing-room floor, fought and bled and died, all in a harrowing tenor
voice. He was slender and pale, and it seemed a pity that he should have
to suffer so much with so many stalwart men at hand. From the first
moment, when he drew his sword and leaped into the fray, our sympathies
were with him, although he personified a doughty man of battles, and led
ten thousand lusty followers.
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