“Oh!—Gale. A queer old boy he seems to have been—a bit of a scholar as well as an artist.”
“That accounts for the ‘Neaera,’ I suppose,” said Tommy.
“Neaera Gale,” thought George. “I don’t remember that.”
“Pretty name, isn’t it?” asked the infatuated Gerald.
“Oh, dry up!” exclaimed Tommy. “We can’t indulge you any more. Go home to bed. You can dream about her, you know.”
Gerald accepted this hint, and retired, still in that state of confident bliss that filled George’s breast with trouble and dismay.
“I might as well be the serpent in Eden,” he said, as he lay in bed, smoking dolefully.