“It would be rather like finding a mother instead of a wife—with all respect to my Aunt Daisy,” laughed Gerald.
“By the bye, I’m sure I once heard a voice, somewhere down by the sea, that would be perfect,” exclaimed Lance. “Sweet and powerful, fresh and young, just what is essential. I heard it when I was in quest of crabs with my boy.”
“I know!” exclaimed Gerald, “the Little Butterfly, as they call her!”
“At a cigar-shop,” said Lance.
“Mrs. Schnetterling’s. Not very respectable,” put in Lady Flight.
“Decidedly attractive to the little boys, though,” said Gerald. “Sweets, fishing-tackle, foreign stamps, cigars. I went in once to see whether Adrian was up to mischief there, and the Mother Butterfly looked at me as if I had seven heads; but I just got a glimpse of the girl, and, as my uncle says, she would make an ideal Mona, or Miranda.”
“Lydia Schnetterling,” exclaimed Mr. Flight. “She is a very pretty girl with a nice voice. You remember her, Miss Mohun, at our concerts? A lovely fairy.”
“I remember her well. I thought she was foreign, and a Roman Catholic.”
“So her mother professes—a Hungarian. The school officer sent her to school, and she did very well there, Sunday-school and all, and was a monitor. She was even confirmed. Her name is really Ludmilla, and Lida is the correct contraction. But when I wanted her to be apprenticed as a pupil-teacher, the mother suddenly objected that she is a Roman Catholic, but I very much doubt the woman’s having any religion at all. I wrote to the priest about her, but I believe he could make nothing of her. Still, Lydia is a very nice girl—comes to church, and has not given up the Choral Society.”
“She is a remarkably nice good girl,” added Mrs. Henderson. “She came to me, and entreated that I would speak for her to be taken on at the marble works.”