My lord relaxed his frown and consented, and of course they talked diamond.
He told her, loftily, he must take a studio, and his sitters must come to him, and must no longer expect to be immortalized for one pound. It must be two pounds for a bust, and three pounds for a kitcat.
“Nay, but, my dear,” said Phoebe, “they will pay no more because you have a diamond.”
“Then they will have to go unpainted,” said Mr. Falcon.
This was intended for a threat. Phoebe instinctively felt that it might not be so received; she counselled moderation. “It is a great thing to have earned a diamond,” said she: “but 'tis only once in a life. Now, be ruled by me: go on just as you are. Sell the diamond, and give me the money to keep for you. Why, you might add a little to it, and so would I, till we made it up two hundred pounds. And if you could only show two hundred pounds you had made and laid by, father would let us marry, and I might keep this shop—it pays well, I can tell you—and keep my gentleman in a sly corner; you need never be seen in it.”
“Ay, ay,” said he, “that is the small game. But I am a man that have always preferred the big game. I shall set up my studio, and make enough to keep us both. So give me the stone, if you please. I shall take it round to them all, and the rogues won't get it out of ME for a hundred and fifty; why, it is as big as a nut.”
“No, no, Reginald. Money has always made mischief between you and me. You never had fifty pounds yet, you didn't fall into temptation. Do pray let me keep it for you; or else sell it—I know how to sell; nobody better—and keep the money for a good occasion.”
“Is it yours, or mine?” said he, sulkily.
“Why yours, dear; you earned it.”
“Then give it me, please.” And he almost forced it out of her hand.