“Ay, and what do you think of him?” whispered Scanlan.
“That chap is a Jew,” said Sim, in the same cautious tone. “I know the features well; you see the very image of him in the old Venetian pictures. Whenever they wanted cunning and cruelty—but more cunning than cruelty—they always took that type.”
“I would n't wonder if you were right, Simmy,” said Scanlan, on whom a new light was breaking.
“I know I am; look at the spread of the nostrils, and the thick, full lips, and the coarse, projecting under-jaw. Faix!” said he to himself, “I 've seen the day I 'd like to have had a study of your face.”
“Indeed!” said Scanlan.
“Just so; he'd make a great Judas!” said Crow, enthusiastically. “It is the miser all over. You know,” added he, “if one took him in the historical way, you 'd get rid of the vulgarity, and make him grander and finer; for, looking at him now, he might be a dog-stealer.”
Scanlan gave a low, cautious laugh as he placed a chair beside his own for the artist, and filled out for him a bumper of port.
“I was just dying for a glass of this,” said Crow. “I dined with Mr. Barry upstairs; and though he's a fine-hearted old fellow in many respects, he's too abstemious; a pint of sherry for two at dinner, and a pint of port after, that's the allowance. Throw out as many hints as you like, suggest how and what you will, but devil a drop more you'll get.”
“And who is he?” asked Scanlan.
“I wish you could tell me,” said Crow.