“As for amusement,” he continued, “she would not find it very amusing to be laid up perhaps for weeks. She was a feverish subject, had she thought of the sicknesses that periodically scourged the East—cholera and small-pox?” Fairy, who was constitutionally nervous, shuddered visibly. “Had she thought of long journeys on horse-back, she who shrieked if the donkey cocked his ears! She was, in his opinion, much too delicate and too helpless to think of leaving home.”
Her determination was somewhat shaken by Dr. Banks’ visit, and by a feverish cold; was it a foretaste of India already? But where filial duty and fear had failed to move her, vanity stepped in, and secured a complete surrender!
The spoiled child of the family was sitting alone in the drawing-room late one afternoon, sewing pleasant anticipations and serious misgivings, alternately, into a smart silk blouse, when her thoughts were suddenly scattered by a loud and unfamiliar double knock. She heard a man’s voice in the hall, and had barely time to throw off her shawl, and give her hair a touch before the glass, when Susan announced, “Mr. Oscar Crabbe.” He was a rising artist who had been staying in the neighbourhood at Christmas, and had made no secret of his profound admiration for Miss Fairy Gordon, from a purely professional standpoint.
Oscar Crabbe was a good-looking man, with a pleasant voice, a luxuriant brown beard, and an off-hand, impetuous manner.
“Pray excuse my calling at this unceremonious hour,” he said as he advanced with a cold, outstretched hand. “I believe it is long after five o’clock; but, as I was passing, I thought I would drop in on chance of finding some one at home. How are your mother and sisters?”
“My mother is lying down with a nervous headache; my sisters are shopping in Hastings, so you will have to put up with me,” said Fairy, coquettishly.
“And you are the very person I most wish to see,” returned Mr. Crabbe, drawing his chair closer as he spoke. “I want to ask you to do me a tremendous favour—I want to paint your portrait for next year’s academy.”
“My portrait?” she echoed tremulously.
“Yes; I said something to you at Christmas, you may remember.”
“I thought you were joking.”