They took a turn up and down in silence, and then the Boy began again, boyishly: "I say, do you suffer from nerves? You made rather a bungle of it the other day, didn't you?"
"You mean when I broke down in that anthem? Were you there? Where did you sit?"
"With the distinguished strangers, of course."
"I did not see you."
"Did you look behind you?"
"No. But are you a stranger here?"
"Well, not exactly," said the Boy, with a great affectation of candour.
They had passed out into the open now, and the Tenor could see the Boy's face. He had glanced at him as we do at the person we speak to, but something he saw arrested his glance, and caused him to look again keenly and closely—the something that had perplexed him before.
The Boy returned his gaze smiling and unabashed. "She put you out, didn't she?" he asked with a grin. "Verily, she hath eyes—at least, I've been told so; but I am no judge of such things myself."
The puzzled look passed from the Tenor's face. "I know what it is," he said. "You are exactly like her."