‘Very well indeed,’ said Mr. Crummles; ‘bravo!’
‘Bravo!’ cried Nicholas, resolved to make the best of everything. ‘Beautiful!’
‘This, sir,’ said Mr. Vincent Crummles, bringing the maiden forward, ‘this is the infant phenomenon—Miss Ninetta Crummles.’
‘Your daughter?’ inquired Nicholas.
‘My daughter—my daughter,’ replied Mr. Vincent Crummles; ‘the idol of every place we go into, sir. We have had complimentary letters about this girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry of almost every town in England.’
‘I am not surprised at that,’ said Nicholas; ‘she must be quite a natural genius.’
‘Quite a—!’ Mr. Crummles stopped: language was not powerful enough to describe the infant phenomenon. ‘I’ll tell you what, sir,’ he said; ‘the talent of this child is not to be imagined. She must be seen, sir—seen—to be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go to your mother, my dear.’
‘May I ask how old she is?’ inquired Nicholas.
‘You may, sir,’ replied Mr. Crummles, looking steadily in his questioner’s face, as some men do when they have doubts about being implicitly believed in what they are going to say. ‘She is ten years of age, sir.’
‘Not more!’