"Which bit, my darling?—the beginning of the andante?"
Miss Jean had learned from Lewis to speak more learnedly than was natural.
"Oh, what do I know about your andantes? Play that—just that little flowery bit—it's like the meadows in the spring."
"I wish Mr. Murray, poor lad, could have heard you call it that."
"Why is he a poor lad? I thought he was very well off. You always speak of him in that little sighing tone."
"Do I, my dear? Oh, he is well enough in fortune—but there are more things needed than fortune to make a young man happy."
Upon which Lilias laughed, yet blushed as well—not for consciousness, but because she was at the stage when the very name of love brings the colour to a girl's cheek.
"He must have a story, or you would not speak of him so. He must be in love——"
"He is just that: and little hope. I think of him many a day, poor lad, and with a sore heart."
"Did he tell you? did he say who it was? Is it anybody we know? Tell me, tell me the story, Jean!"