“To be sure we can!” exclaimed the Major, reassured.
Here Pompilard’s eldest daughter, Angelica Ireton, long a widow, and old enough to be a grandmother, entered the room with a newspaper.
“What is it, Jelly?” asked the paternal voice.
“News of the surrender of Memphis! And, only think of it! Frederick is highly complimented in the despatch.”
“Good for Fred!” said Pompilard. “Make a note of it, Major, for the new history.”
A knock at the door now introduced the once elfish and imitative Netty, or Antoinette, grown up into a dignified young lady of striking appearance, who, if not handsome, had a face beaming with intelligence and the cheerfulness of an earnest purpose. She wore, not a Bloomer, but a sort of blouse, which looked well on her erect and slender figure; and her hair, as if to be put out of harm’s way in working hours, was combed back into a careless though graceful knot.
“Walk in, Netty!” said the wounded man.
“Here’s our great artiste,—our American Rosa Bonheur!” cried Pompilard, patting her on the head.
“Why, father, I never painted a horse or a cow in my life,” expostulated Netty. “Remember, I’m a marine painter. I deal in ships, shipwrecks, calms, squalls, and sea-washed rocks; not in cattle.”
“Yes, Cecil, she’s engaged on a bit of beach scenery, which will make a sensation when ’t is hung in the Academy. Better sea-water hasn’t been painted since Vernet; and she beats Vernet in rigging her ships.”