"A model, Mr. Wynne? What sort of a model—there are models and models, of course."
"Well, a model of every sort, in every possible sense of the word—head, hands, feet, everything!"
"A model for the figure?"
"Well—yes!"
"Oh, my God! my God! my God!" cried Mrs. Bagot—and she got up and walked up and down the studio in a most terrible state of agitation, her brother-in-law following her and begging her to control herself. Her exclamations seemed to shock him, and she didn't seem to care.
"Oh, Mr. Wynne! Mr. Wynne! If you only knew what my son is to me—to all of us—always has been! He has been with us all his life, till he came to this wicked, accursed city! My poor husband would never hear of his going to any school, for fear of all the harm he might learn there. My son was as innocent and pure-minded as any girl, Mr. Wynne—I could have trusted him anywhere—and that's why I gave way and allowed him to come here, of all places in the world—all alone. Oh! I should have come with him! Fool—fool—fool that I was!...
"Oh, Mr. Wynne, he won't see either his mother or his uncle! I found a letter from him at the hotel, saying he'd left Paris—and I don't even know where he's gone!... Can't you, can't Mr. McAllister, do anything to avert this miserable disaster? You don't know how he loves you both—you should see his letters to me and to his sister! they are always full of you!"
"Indeed, Mrs. Bagot—you can count on McAllister and me for doing everything in our power! But it is of no use our trying to influence your son—I feel quite sure of that! It is to her we must make our appeal."
"Oh, Mr. Wynne! to a washer-woman—a figure model—and Heaven knows what besides! and with such a chance as this!"