“I shall try to do my duty,” said Amethyst. “Mr Riddell should give us some copies of his beautiful poem,” said Lady Haredale. “Get him to give them to you, Amethyst, to sell yourself!”
“I shall make a point of buying one, then, at any price,” said Major Fowler.
The bazaar was a very magnificent one, the stallholders so high in rank, that the author of ‘Iris’ might well have felt it a lucky chance; but to Sylvester the idea was agony.
“No,” said Amethyst slowly. “Books never sell at bazaars, I can’t undertake them.”
“My dear child,” said her mother, “you are really rude. This book would sell, of course.”
“I couldn’t sell it,” said Amethyst, and Sylvester felt as if he could have gone down on his knees to her, in gratitude.
He was half-wild. The atmosphere of this London world was not pure and sweet enough to hold his Iris. Here again was this old tempter, as he believed Major Fowler to be, by her side. Amethyst was no heavenly spirit, serene herself, to draw and influence struggling manhood; but a woman of the world, for whom an anxious lover saw many dangers, a jewel in which it was easy to find flaws, seen every moment in a changing light. She had indeed no time to dwell on one subject. A theory of life must give place to the exigencies of the bazaar. Una could only have a word and a kiss, as Amethyst hurried away with her mother to a great reception, as soon as the dinner-party was over. Sylvester Riddell had had his word and his thought. Now, on a grand staircase, amid a splendid throng of fine people, Sir Richard Grattan and Prince Pontresina were both awaiting her. She felt that the choice between Titian and the newest R.A. would soon be forced upon her, and was glad to turn to receive the courtesies of the very great lady at whose stall she was to help on the next day.
This was scarcely over, when she caught sight of the peculiar face of Mr Carisbrooke, standing under a group of palms and other tropical plants in the corridor, at the head of the staircase.
Her young intellect must have been vigorous and strong, her interest in new ideas very keen; for, in the midst of all the distracting whirl, her thoughts flashed back to her previous interview with him, and she made an opportunity to join him, and put her question, as if he and she had been alone in the place.
“Mr Carisbrooke,” she said, “you have set me thinking. I should like you to try your experiment. I want to know what my picture told you.”