“Try,” said the haughty girl, taking a pencil and some paper from a pocket of the portfolio.
I took the pencil, dropped on one knee by the table, and, excited by her sneers into an attempt that I should have held almost sacrilegious at another time, transferred a shadow of the image that filled my soul to the paper. I felt the look of haughty astonishment with which the young patrician bent over me as I worked out the quick inspiration.
“What is she doing?” inquired Lady Catherine, gliding toward the table. “Why, Estelle, you seem entranced.”
Estelle drew proudly back, and pointed toward me with a sneering lift of the upper lip, absolutely hateful.
“You have found a prodigy here, madam, nothing less,” she said; “what a memory the creature must have to draw like that with only one sight of your son’s face!”
Lady Catherine bent over me, and I felt that she breathed unequally, like one conquering an unpleasant surprise.
“What an impression that one interview must have made,” persisted the young lady.
“I have seen Mr. Irving more than once or twice,” I answered, without pausing in the rapid touches of my pencil, though my heart beat loud and fast as I spoke.
“Indeed,” sneered the girl with a glance at Lady Catherine.
“Indeed!” repeated that lady, with forced unconcern; “the child wanders among the trees like a bird, Estelle, you have no idea what a wild gipsy it is; we must civilize her between us.”