“Any children?”
“There are no children, but he has a niece—he’s got some legal responsibility as regards her; I remember seeing it in the newspapers, he’s her guardian or something.”
Mr. Ellsberger looked at the girl with a speculative eye.
“Have you his letter?”
She nodded and produced the epistle.
It was polite but warm. It had some reference to her “gracious talent,” to her “unexampled beauty” which had “brought pleasure to one who was no longer influenced by the commonplace,” and it finished up by expressing the hope that they two would meet in the early future, and that before leaving for Paris she would honour him by being his guest for a few days.
Ellsberger handed the letter back.
“Write him,” he said, “and, Sadie, consider yourself engaged for another week—write to him in my time. He’s fallen for all that Press stuff, and maybe, if he’s got that passionate admiration for your genius he’ll—say, you don’t want to stay in the picture business and finish by marrying that kind of trouble, do you?”
He pointed through the wide windows to a youth who was coming across from the studio to the office, swinging a cane vigorously.
“Observe the lavender socks and the wrist watch,” he chuckled. “But don’t make any mistake about Timothy Anderson. He’s the toughest amateur at his weight in this or any other state and a good boy, but he’s the kind of fellow that women like you marry—get acquainted with the Judge.”