"Helloa! Helloa! Helloa!"
Thora ran to the Venetians, parted two blades of them, and said, with an air of surprise, "It's Oscar!" Then she tapped the window-pane, and cried "Presently" to the person outside, and stood for a moment to look down at him.
A young man of three-and-twenty sat on one pony and held another by its bridle. He was tall and slim, almost as fair as Thora herself, and he had a cluster of short curls under the Alpine hat which he raised to the moving blind. The moon had gone by this time; a greyish-pink light--the pioneer of the sun--was filtering through a vaporous atmosphere; the ships and fishing boats in the bay were breaking through a veil of mist, and vague shadows of men and women, muffled up to the throats, but chattering and laughing like children, were coming and going in the gloom of the streets.
"Quick, auntie, quick!" cried Thora, lowering her voice, and while the women in the bedroom hustled about and talked in whispers the young man waiting outside slapped his leggings with his riding whip, and whistled and sang alternate lines of a love-song--
"Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine."
"Must I wear these ugly----?"
"Certainly you must. They're warm and comfortable, and it's not as if anybody could see----"
"Auntie, don't speak so loud, or people will hear."
"Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine."
"What a voice he has! I'm certain he'll make a success some day."