"I cannot tell," said Davy, himself so flushed now that I could hardly think him the same person, "unless, by some extraordinary chance, it may be Milans-André."
"No, no!" exclaimed one of our contemporaries, who, in returning to the orchestra, overheard the remark. "No, no! it is not Milans-André. Mr. Hermann, the leader, has seen Milans-André in Paris. No, it is some nobleman, they say,—a German prince. They all know Handel in Germany."
"Nonsense!" replied Davy, "they don't know Handel better in Germany than we do in England;" but he spoke as if to me, having turned from the person who addressed him.
"Don't they, Mr. Davy? But he does look like a prince."
"Not a German prince, my Charles. He is more like one of your favorite Jews,—and that is where it is, no doubt."
"Davy, Davy!" exclaimed again another, one of the professors in the town, "can it be Milans-André?"
"They say not, Mr. Westley. I do not know myself, but I should have thought Monsieur André must be older than this gentleman, who does not look twenty."
"Oh! he is more than twenty."
"As you please," muttered Davy, merrily, as he turned again to me. "My boy, we must not stand here; we shall lose our old places. Do not forget to remain in yours, when it is over, till I come to fetch you."
When it is over! Oh, cruel Lenhart Davy! to remind me that it would ever end. I felt it cruel then, but perhaps I felt too much,—I always do, and I hope I always shall.