“That have I,” said he, with a sigh that told how intensely he felt the words; and then, as if to overcome the sad impression, he asked, “And the girl, is she to take to the stage?”
“I believe Stocmar will have to decide the point; at least, I told her mother that he was on his way to Italy, and that his opinion on such a matter might be deemed final. Our friend here,” continued Trover, as he pointed laughingly to Stocmar,—“our friend here buys up these budding celebrities just as Anderson would a yearling colt, and, like him too, would reckon himself well paid if one succeed in twenty.”
“Ay, one in fifty, Trover,” broke in Stocmar. “It is quite true. Many a stone does not pay for the cutting; but as we always get the lot cheap, we can afford to stand the risk.”
“She's a strange sort of woman, this Mrs. Morris,” said Trover, after a pause, “for she seems hesitating between the Conservatoire and a convent.”
“Is the girl a Catholic?”
“No; but her mother appears to consider that as a minor circumstance; in fact, she strikes me as one of those people who, when they determine to go to a place, are certain to cut out a road for themselves.”
“That she is!” exclaimed Paten.
“Oh, then, you are acquainted with her?” cried Trover.
“No, no,” said he, hurriedly. “I was merely judging from your description of her. Such a woman as you have pictured I can imagine, just as if I had known her all my life.”
“I should like to see both mother and daughter,” broke in Stocmar.