"I, sir,—how?"
"Charles, a man may be always longing to be an angel, and never consider what it is to be a man."
His voice was as a sudden wind springing up amidst solitary leaves, it was so fitful, so vaguely sweet. I looked upon him indeed for the first time with trembling, since I had been with him that day. He had fallen into a stiller step, for we had reached the foot of the ascent. It never occurred to me that I was not expected at Cecilia. I thought of nothing but that I should accompany him. He suddenly again addressed me in English.
"Did St. Michel ever recover the use of his arm?"
I was quite embarrassed. "I never asked about him, sir; but I daresay he did."
"I thought you would have known. You should have asked, I think. Was he a rich man or a poor man?"
"How do you mean, sir? He was well off, I should suppose, for he used to dress a great deal, and had a horse, and taught all over the town. Mr. Davy said he was as popular as Giardini."
"Mr. Davy was who,—your godfather?"
"My musical godfather I should say, sir. He took me to the festival, and had I not accidentally met him I should never have gone there, have never seen you. Oh, sir!—"
"Nothing is accidental that happens to you, to such as you. But I should have been very sorry not to have seen you. I thought you were a little messenger from the other world."