“What a pity it is we have no piano, Katharine,” said John Westonhaugh, who was fond of music.  “Could you not sing something without any accompaniment?”

“Oh no.  Mr. Isaacs,” she said, turning her voice to where she could see the light of his cigarette and the faint outline of his chair in the starlight, “here we are in the camp.  Now where is the ‘lute’ you promised to produce for us?  I think the time has come at last for you to keep your promise.”

“Well,” said he, “I believe there really is an old guitar or something of the kind among my traps somewhere.  But it might wake Mr. Ghyrkins, who, I understand from his tones, is asleep.”

Various opinions were expressed to the effect that Mr. Ghyrkins was not so easily disturbed, and a voice like Kildare’s was heard to mumble that “it would not hurt him if he was,” a sentence no one attempted to construe.  So the faithful Narain was summoned, and instructed to bring the instrument if he could find it.  I was rather surprised at Isaacs’ readiness to sing; but in the first place I had never heard him, and besides I did not make allowance for the Oriental courtesy of his character, which would not refuse anything, or make any show of refusal in order to be pressed.  Narain returned with a very modern-looking guitar-case, and, opening the box, presented his master with the instrument, which, as Isaacs took it to the light in the door of the tent to see if it had travelled safely, appeared to be a perfectly new German guitar.  I suspected him of having purchased it at the little music shop at Simla, for the especial amusement of our party.

“I thought it was a lute you played on,” said Miss Westonhaugh, “a real, lovely, ancient Assyrian lute, or something of that kind.”

“Oh, a plain guitar is infinitely better and less troublesome,” said Isaacs as he returned to his seat in the dark and began to tune the strings softly.  “It takes so long to tune one of those old things, and then nothing will make them stand.  Now this one, you see,—­or rather you cannot see,—­has an ingenious contrivance of screws by which you may tune it in a moment.”  While he was speaking he was altering the pitch of the strings, and presently he added, “There, it is done now,” and two or three sounding chords fell on the still air.  “Now what shall I sing?  I await your commands.”

“Something soft, and sweet, and gentle.”

“A love-song?” asked he quietly.

“Well yes—­a love-song if you like.  Why not?” said she.

“No reason in the world that I can think of,” I remarked.  Whereat Lord Steepleton Kildare threw his cigar away, and began lighting another a moment after, as if he had discarded his weed by mistake.