“Gabriel,” whispered the father, “you had better follow me, had you not? Reflect!” So saying, he bowed low to the unpropitious assembly, and as if yielding the victory, stepped aside and crossed over towards Bond Street.
Before the din of derision and triumph died away, Dalibard looked back, and saw Gabriel behind him.
“Approach, sir,” he said; and as the boy stood still, he added, “I promise peace if you will accept it.”
“Peace, then,” answered Gabriel, and he joined his father’s side.
“So,” said Dalibard, “when I consented to your studying Art, as you call it, under your mother’s most respectable brother, I ought to have contemplated what would be the natural and becoming companions of the rising Raphael I have given to the world.”
“I own, sir,” replied Gabriel, demurely, “that they are riotous fellows; but some of them are clever, and—”
“And excessively drunk,” interrupted Dalibard, examining the gait of his son. “Do you learn that accomplishment also, by way of steadying your hand for the easel?”
“No, sir; I like wine well enough, but I would not be drunk for the world. I see people when they are drunk are mere fools,—let out their secrets, and show themselves up.”
“Well said,” replied the father, almost admiringly. “But a truce with this bantering, Gabriel. Can you imagine that I will permit you any longer to remain with that vagabond Varney and yon crew of vauriens? You will come home with me; and if you must be a painter, I will look out for a more trustworthy master.”
“I shall stay where I am,” answered Gabriel, firmly, and compressing his lips with a force that left them bloodless.