He made a long, long pause. I was in no mood to reply, and it was not until I was ashamed of my own silence that I spoke; then my own accents startled me. I told Seraphael I must return on the morrow to my own place if I were to enjoy at length what Miss Lawrence had set before me. He replied that I must come back to him when I came, and that he would write to me meantime.
"If I can, Carlomein; but I cannot always write even, my child, to thee. There is one thing more between us,—a little end of business."
He lit with a waxen match a waxen taper, which was coiled into a brazen cup; he brought it from the mantelshelf to the table; he took a slip of paper and a pen. The tiny flame threw out his hand, of a brilliant ivory, while his head remained in flickering shadow,—I could trace a shadow smile.
"Now, Carlomein, this brother of yours. His name is David, I think?"
"Lenhart Davy, sir."
"Has he many musical friends?"
"Only his wife particularly so,—the class are all neophytes."
"Well, he can do as he pleases. Here is an order."
He held out the paper in a regal attitude, and in the other hand brought near the tremulous taper, that I so might read. It was,—
Abbey Choir, Westminster.