“Sometimes he tries to sing one himself,” said the boy, with a smile, “but he does not sing very well and he gets vexed with himself in fun, and flings things about the room. But you will sing some of these songs, madame, and let me hear how they are sung in the North?”
“Some time,” said Sheila, “I would rather listen just now to all you can tell me of Mr. Ingram—he is such a very old friend of mine, and I do not know how he lives.”
The lad speedily discovered that there was at least one way of keeping his new and beautiful friend profoundly interested; and, indeed, he went on talking until Lavender came into the room in evening dress. It was eleven o’clock, and young Mosenberg started up with a thousand apologies and hopes that he had not detained Mrs. Lavender. No, Mrs. Lavender was not going out; her husband was going around for an hour to a ball that Mrs. Kavanagh was giving, but she preferred to stay at home.
“May I call upon you to-morrow afternoon, madame?” said the boy, as he was leaving.
“I shall be very glad if you will,” Sheila answered.
And as he went along the pavement young Mosenberg observed to his companion that Mrs. Lavender did not seem to have gone out much, and that it was very good of her to have promised to go with him occasionally into Kensington Gardens.
“Oh, has she?” said Lavender.
“Yes,” said the lad, with some surprise.
“You are lucky to be able to get her to leave the house,” her husband said; “I can’t.”
Perhaps he had not tried so much as the words seemed to imply.