Sheila merely looked up to him; there was no fear in the frank, brave eyes.

The first large town she saw struck a cold chill to her heart.  On a wet and dismal afternoon they sailed into Greenock.  A heavy smoke hung about the black building-yards and the dirty quays; the narrow and squalid streets were filled with mud, and only the poorer sections of the population waded through the mire or hung disconsolately about the corners of the thorough-fares.  A gloomier picture could not well be conceived; and Sheila, chilled with the long and wet sail and bewildered by the noise and bustle of the harbor, was driven to the hotel with a sore heart and a downcast face.

“This is not like London, Frank?” she said, pretty nearly ready to cry with disappointment.

“This?  No.  Well, it is like a part of London, certainly, but not the part you will live in.”

“But how can we live in the one place without passing the other and being made miserable by it?  There was no part of Oban like this.”

“Why, you will live miles away from the docks and quays of London.  You might live for a lifetime in London without ever knowing it had a harbor.  Don’t you be afraid, Sheila.  You will live in a district where there are far finer houses than any you saw in Oban, and far finer trees; and within a few minutes’ walk you will find great gardens and parks, with lakes in them and wild fowls, and you will be able to teach the boys about how to set the helm and the sails when they are launching their small boats.”

“I should like that,” said Sheila, her face brightening.

“Perhaps you would like a boat yourself?”

“Yes,” she said, frankly.  “If there were not many people there, we might go out sometimes in the evening—­”

Her husband laughed and took her hand:  “You don’t understand, Sheila.  The boats the boys have are little things a foot or two long—­like the one in your papa’s bedroom in Borva.  But many of the boys would be greatly obliged to you if you would teach them how to manage the sails properly, for sometimes dreadful shipwrecks occur.”

“You must bring them to our house.  I am very fond of little boys, when they begin to forget to be shy, and let you become acquainted with them.”

“Well,” said Lavender, “I don’t know many of the boys who sail boats in the Serpentine:  you will have to make their acquaintance yourself.  But I know one boy whom I must bring to the house.  He is a German-Jew boy, who is going to be another Mendelssohn, his friends say.  He is a pretty boy, with ruddy-brown hair, big black eyes, and a fine forehead; and he really sings and plays delightfully.  But you know, Sheila, you must not treat him as a boy, for he is over fourteen, I should think; and if you were to kiss him—­”

“He might be angry,” said Sheila, with perfect simplicity.

“I might,” said Lavender; and then, noticing that she seemed a little surprised, he merely patted her head and bade her go and get ready for dinner.