“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 foolish dreams.  He would sing songs to Sheila, and reveal to her in that way a passion of which he dared not otherwise speak.  He would compose pieces of music for her, and dedicate them to her, and spend half his quarterly allowance in having them printed.  He would grow to consider him, Lavender, a heartless brute, and cherish dark notions of poisoning him, but for the pain it might cause to her.

“I don’t remember whether you smoke, Mosenberg,” Lavender said after dinner.

“Yes—­a cigarette sometimes,” said the lad; “but if Mrs. Lavender is going away perhaps she will let me go into the drawing-room with her.  There is that sonata of Muzio Clementi, madame, which I will try to remember for you if you please.”

“All right,” said Lavender:  “you’ll find me in the next room on the left when you get tired of your music and want a cigar.  I think you used to beat me at chess, didn’t you?”

“I do not know.  We will try once more to-night.”