“Who should know, dearest, but the mother who is his confidant?” was the caressing reply. “How can you doubt what I tell you?”
“Well,” replied the girl, rising, “let the child come to my dressing-room!”
“No, love,” interposed Lady Catherine; “bring them here—I never weary of them myself.”
The young lady withdrew, and returned with a richly embroidered portfolio crowded full of drawings. She spread them out upon a table, and haughtily motioned me to approach.
The drawings were evidently copies highly finished, but variable as if more than one pencil had performed its part there. My quick intuition told me this at a glance, and I looked into the girl’s face with a feeling of scorn which doubtless spoke in my features. She probably held me in so much contempt that my look was unnoticed, for she continued to turn over the drawings with haughty self-possession, as if quite careless of any opinion I might form.
At last we came to a head sketched with care, and evidently an attempt at some likeness.
“Do you know that?” said Estelle, “probably you have never seen Mr. Irving.”
“I have seen Mr. Irving,” was my answer, “but this is not in the least like him.”
“Perhaps you could draw a better one!” she said, casting a sneering smile toward Lady Catherine, but with rising color, as if she were a good deal vexed.
“Perhaps,” I answered very quietly.