“You are very fortunate,” said Ingram with a smile, for he was well pleased to hear that Sheila had taken a fancy to the boy, and was likely to find his society amusing.  “But you have not told me yet what you think of her.”

“What I think of her?” said the lad, pausing in a bewildered way, as if he could find no words to express his opinion of Sheila.  And then he said, suddenly, “I think she is like the Mother of God.”

“You irreverent young rascal!” said Ingram, lighting his pipe, “how dare you say such a thing?”

“I mean in the pictures—­in the tall pictures you see in some churches abroad, far up in a half-darkness.  She has the same sweet, compassionate look, and her eyes are sometimes a little sad; and when she speaks to you, you think you have known her for a long time, and that she wishes to be very kind to you.  But she is not a princess at all, as you told me.  I expected to find her grand, haughty, willful—­yes; but she is much too friendly for that; and when she laughs you see she could not sweep about a room and stare at people.  But if she was angry or proud, perhaps then—­”

“See you don’t make her angry, then,” said Ingram.  “Now go and play over all you were practicing in the morning.  No! stop a bit.  Sit down and tell me something more about your experiences of Shei—­of Mrs. Lavender.”

Young Mosenberg laughed and sat down:  “Do you know, Mr. Ingram, that the same thing occurred the night before last?  I was about to sing some more, or I was asking Mrs. Lavender to sing some more—­I forget which—­but she said to me, ’Not just now.  I wish you to sit down and tell me all you know about Mr. Ingram.’”

“And she no sooner honors you with her confidence than you carry it to every one?” said Ingram, somewhat fearful of the boy’s tongue.

“Oh, as to that,” said the lad, delighted to see that his friend was a little embarrassed—­“As to that, I believe she is in love with you.”

“Mosenberg,” said Ingram with a flash of anger in the dark eyes, “if you were half a dozen years older I would thrash the life out of you.  Do you think that is a pretty sort of joke to make about a woman?  Don’t you know the mischief your gabbling tongue might make? for how is every one to know that you are talking merely impertinent nonsense?”

“Oh,” said the boy audaciously, “I did not mean anything of the kind you see in comedies or in operas, breaking up marriages and causing duels?  Oh no.  I think she is in love with you as I am in love with her; and I am, ever since yesterday.”

“Well, I will say this for you,” remarked Ingram slowly, “that you are the cheekiest young beggar I have the pleasure to know.  You are in love with her, are you?  A lady admits you to her house, is particularly kind to you, talks to you in confidence, and then you go and tell people that you are in love with her!”

“I did not tell people,” said Mosenberg, flushing under the severity of the reproof:  “I told you only, and I thought you would understand what I meant.  I should have told Lavender himself just as soon—­yes; only he would not care.”