Later in the evening he might be persuaded to
give them a reading from Boz, or a recitation. At that kind of thing, he
had not his equal.
But first there was a cry for his flute; and in vain did Mahony protest
that weeks had elapsed since he last screwed the instrument together. He
got no quarter, even from Mary--but then Mary was one of those
inconvenient people to whom it mattered not a jot what a fool you made
of yourself, as long as you did what was asked of you. And so, from
memory and unaccompanied, he played them the old familiar air of THE
MINSTREL BOY. The theme, in his rendering, was overlaid by florid
variations and cumbered with senseless repetitions; but, none the less,
the wild, wistful melody went home, touching even those who were not
musical to thoughtfulness and retrospect. The most obstinate chatterers,
whom neither sham battles nor Balfe and Blockley had silenced, held
their tongues; and Mrs. Devine openly wiped her eyes.
O, THE MINSTREL BOY TO THE WARS HAS GONE!
IN THE RANKS OF DEATH YOU'LL FIND HIM.
While it was proceeding, Mary found herself seated next John. John
tapped his foot in time to the tune; and under cover of the applause at
its close remarked abruptly: "You should fatten Richard up a bit, Mary.
He could stand it."
From where they sat they had Richard in profile, and Mary studied her
husband critically, her head a little on one side. "Yes, he IS rather
thin. But I don't think he was ever meant to be fat.
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