"I don't want to think of the rascally knave or the rabble either. My
thoughts are on yonder pretty little jade. Look for yourself,
Bolingbroke. You're not so insensible to beauty as Lance Vane is at this
moment."
"Faith, I hope not. Where's the charmer?" said Bolingbroke walking to
the window.
"Stay. She's going to sing. She has the voice of a nightingale. I've
heard her before. Lord! to think she has to do it for a living!"
"Humph. She has courage. Most girls would die rather than rub shoulders
with that frousy, bestial, drunken mob."
"Aye, but that little witch subdues them all with her voice. What says
Will Congreve? Music has charms to soothe a savage breast? Listen."
A girl slight in figure but harmoniously proportioned had placed herself
about two yards from the bow window. She fixed her eyes on Gay and her
pretty mouth curved into a smile. Then she sang. The ditty was "Cold and
Raw," a ballad that two hundred years ago or so, never failed to delight
everybody from the highest to the lowest. She gave it with natural
feeling and without any attempt at display. The voice was untrained but
this did not matter. It was like the trill of a bird, sweet, flexible
and pure toned.
"A voice like that ought not to be battered about. It's meant for
something better than bawling to a mob. What says your lordship?"
Bolingbroke's face had become grave, almost stern.
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