“I beg pardon respectfully: I am an artist,—a pupil of the Royal Academy; I should like to make a sketch of Miss Juliet Araminta.”
“Sketch! nonsense.”
“Sir,” said Lionel, with the seasonable extravagance of early youth, “my friend would, I am sure, pay for the sitting—handsomely!”
“Ha!” said the manager, softened, “you speak like a gentleman, sir: but, sir, Miss Juliet Araminta is under my protection; in fact, she is my property. Call and speak to me about it to-morrow, before the first performance begins, which is twelve o’clock. Happy to see any of your friends in the reserved seats. Busy now, and—and—in short—excuse me—servant, sir—servant, sir.”
The Baron’s manner left no room for further parley. Vance bowed, smiled, and retreated. But meanwhile his young friend had seized the opportunity to speak both to Waife and his grandchild; and when Vance took his arm and drew him away, there was a puzzled, musing expression on Lionel’s face, and he remained silent till they had got through the press of such stragglers as still loitered before the stage, and were in a quiet corner of the sward. Stars and moon were then up,—a lovely summer night.
“What on earth are you thinking of, Lionel? I have put to you three questions, and you have not answered one.”
“Vance,” answered Lionel, slowly, “the oddest thing! I am so disappointed in that little girl,—greedy and mercenary!”
“Precocious villain! how do you know that she is greedy and mercenary?”
“Listen: when that surly old manager came up to you, I said something—civil, of course—to Waife, who answered in a hoarse, broken voice, but in very good language. Well, when I told the manager that you would pay for the sitting, the child caught hold of my arm hastily, pulled me down to her own height, and whispered, ‘How much will he give?’ Confused by a question so point-blank, I answered at random, ‘I don’t know; ten shillings, perhaps.’ You should have seen her face!”
“See her face! radiant,—I should think so. Too much by half!” exclaimed Vance. “Ten shillings! Spendthrift!” “Too much! she looked as you might look if one offered you ten shillings for your picture of ‘Julius Caesar considering whether he should cross the Rubicon.’ But when the manager had declared her to be his property, and appointed you to call to-morrow,—implying that he was to be paid for allowing her to sit,—her countenance became overcast, and she muttered sullenly, ‘I’ll not sit; I’ll not!’ Then she turned to her grandfather, and something very quick and close was whispered between the two; and she pulled me by the sleeve, and said in my ear—oh, but so eagerly!—‘I want three pounds, sir,—three pounds!—if he would give three pounds; and come to our lodgings,—Mr. Merle, Willow Lane. Three pounds,—three!’ And with those words hissing in my ear, and coming from that fairy mouth, which ought to drop pearls and diamonds, I left her,” added Lionel, as gravely as if he were sixty, “and lost an illusion!”