Another and a longer pause now ensued between them; at length Paten broke it abruptly, saying, “And the girl—I mean Clara—what of her?”
“It's all arranged; she is to be Clara Stocmar, and a pensionnaire of the Conservatoire of Milan within a week.”
“Who says so?” asked Paten, defiantly.
“Her mother—well, you know whom I mean by that title—proposed, and I accepted the arrangement. She may, or may not, have dramatic ability; like everything else in life, there is a lottery about it. If she really do show cleverness, she will be a prize just now. If she has no great turn of speed, as the jocks say, she 'll always do for the Brazils and Havannah. They never send us their best cigars, and, in return, we only give them our third-rate singers!”
It was evident in this speech that Stocmar was trying, by a jocular tone, to lead the conversation into some channel less irritating and disputatious; but Paten's features relaxed nothing of their stern severity, and he looked dogged and resolute as before.
“I think, Stocmar,” said he, at length, “that there is still a word wanting to that same bargain you speak of. If the girl's talents are to be made marketable, why should not I stand in for something?”
“You,—you, Ludlow!” cried the other. “In the name of all that is absurd, what pretext can you have for such a claim?”
“Just this: that I am privy to the robbery, and might peach if not bought up.”
“You know well this is mere blind menace, Ludlow,” said the other, good-humoredly; “and as to letting off squibs, my boy, don't forget that you live in a powder-magazine.”
“And what if I don't care for a blow-up? What if I tell you that I 'd rather send all sky-high to-morrow than see that woman succeed in all her schemes, and live to defy me?”