"No, Fräulein," said Mark, blushing still more, "that would be improper in me."
"Would it?" said the girl lightly; "don't angels kiss? How very stupid it must be to be an angel! Come and look at poor 'Fifine' then! I suppose she is quite dead."
And, opening the cage, she took out the piteous heap of yellow feathers and held it in her delicate hand, while the tears came again into her large dark eyes.
"Ah! it was dreadful," she said, "to sing and see him die."
"But, Fräulein," said the boy, "you sang most beautifully. I never heard anything so wonderful. It was heaven itself."
The girl looked at him very kindly.
"Oh, you like my singing," she said, "I am glad of that. Do you know, we shall be great friends. I like you. You are a very pretty boy."
And she tried to put her arm round his neck. Mark eluded her embrace. "Fräulein," he said, with a dignified air, which made his companion laugh, "you must remember that I am tutor to their serene Highnesses; I shall be very glad to be friends with you, and you will tell me something about the people in the palace."
"Oh!" replied the girl, "there is no one but our own company, but they are the greatest fun, and better fun here than anywhere else. It is delightful to see them among these stupid, solemn, heavy Germans, with their terrible language. I shall love to see you with them, you will stare your pretty eyes out. There's old Carricchio—that's not his name, you know, but he is called so because of his part—that is the best of them, they are always the same—off the stage or on it—always laughing, always joking, always kicking up their heels. You will see the faces—such delicious grimaces, old Carricchio will make at you when he asks you for the salt. But don't be frightened, I'll take care of you. They are all in love with me, but I like you already better than all of them. You shall come on yourself sometime, just as you are; you will make a delightful part."
Mark stared at her with amazement.