"A very near neighbour," answered the young man, with a smile, and he seated himself by the side of Mr. Bethune without more ado. "I have often thought of speaking to you, and asking to be allowed to make your acquaintance; for you seem to have very few visitors—you will pardon my curiosity—while I have none at all."
"Oh, really, really," the old man said, somewhat vaguely; perhaps he was wondering how so faultlessly attired a young gentleman (his patent-leather boots, for example, were of the most approved pattern) should have chosen lodgings in so humble a thoroughfare.
"It is a very quiet little corner, is it not?" the young man said—almost as if answering that unspoken question. "That is why it suits me so well; I can get on with my books without interruption. The street is so small that it isn't worth an organ-grinder's while to waste time in it."
"Music is a sad thing for interrupting study; I know that," the old gentleman observed. "By the way, I hope we do not disturb you—my granddaughter plays the violin sometimes—"
"I could listen to that kind of music all day long," was the response. "I never heard such violin-playing—most beautiful!—most beautiful!"
"Then you are not far away from us?"
"Right opposite," was the straightforward answer.
George Bethune glanced at the young man with a look of quiet amusement; he was thinking of the pale music-mistress—the solitary widow of his imagination.
"And you—you also play a little in the evenings sometimes?"
"I hope you didn't think it rude, sir," the young man said, humbly. "I thought it permissible, as between neighbours."