To me it seemed fantastic to watch a slip of a girl pouring it out for two grizzled and distinguished servants of the State and one battered soldier--as decorous a family party as you would ask to see--and to reflect that all four were engaged in an enterprise where men's lives must be reckoned at less than thistledown.
After that we went upstairs to a noble Georgian drawing-room and Mary played to us.

I don't care two straws for music from an instrument--unless it be the pipes or a regimental band--but I dearly love the human voice.

But she would not sing, for singing to her, I fancy, was something that did not come at will, but flowed only like a bird's note when the mood favoured.

I did not want it either.

I was content to let 'Cherry Ripe' be the one song linked with her in my memory.
It was Macgillivray who brought us back to business.
'I wish to Heaven there was one habit of mind we could definitely attach to him and to no one else.' (At this moment 'He' had only one meaning for us.) 'You can't do nothing with his mind,' Blenkiron drawled.