that walk. The
boy devoted himself wholly to Sheila. He had heard frequently of her,
and he knew of her coming from the wild and romantic Hebrides; and he
began to tell her of all the experiments that composers had made in
representing the sound of seas and storms and winds howling through
caverns washed by the waves. Lavender liked music well enough, and
could himself play and sing a little, but this enthusiasm rather bored
him. He wanted to know if the yellow wine was still as cool and clear
as ever down in the twilight of Auerbach's cellar, what burlesques
had lately been played at the theatre, and whether such and such a
beer-garden was still to the fore; whereas he heard only analyses
of overtures, and descriptions of the uses of particular musical
instruments, and a wild rhapsody about moonlit seas, the sweetness of
French horns, the King of Thule, and a dozen other matters.

"Mosenberg," he said, "before you go calling on people you ought to
visit an English tailor. People will think you belong to a German
band."

"I have been to a tailor," said the lad with a frank laugh. "My
parents, madame, wish me to be quite English: that is why I am sent
to live in London, while they are in Frankfort. I stay with some very
good friends of mine, who are very musical, and they are not annoyed
by my practicing, as other people would be."

"I hope you will sing something to us this evening," said Sheila.

"I will sing and play for you all the evening," he said lightly,
"until you are tired. But you must tell me when you are tired, for who
can tell how much music will be enough? Sometimes two or three songs
are more than enough to make people wish you away."

"You need have no fear of tiring me," said Sheila. "But when you are
tired I will sing for you."

"Yes, of course you sing, madame," he said, casting down his eyes: "I
knew that when I saw you."

Sheila had got a sweetheart, and Lavender saw it and smiled
good-naturedly. The awe and reverence with which this lad regarded the
beautiful woman beside him were something new and odd in Kensington
Gardens. Yet it was the way of those boys. He had himself had his
imaginative fits of worship, in which some very ordinary young woman,
who ate a good breakfast and spent an hour and a half in arranging her
hair before going out, was regarded as some beautiful goddess fresh
risen from the sea or descended from the clouds. Young Mosenberg was
just at the proper age for these fo