“What about, Miranda?”
“You a-smudging out her beautiful figure as you took such pains to paint. Why, she was a-talking to me ’bout it, sir, when she was a-goin’ yesterday, and said she was goin’ to be Queen June-ho at the ’cademy.”
“But she will not be, Miranda,” said Armstrong sadly; “it was execrable. Ah, my little lass, what a pity it is that you could not stand for the figure.”
“Me, sir! Oh, my!” cried the girl, giggling. “Why, I’m a perfect sight. And, oh!—I couldn’t, you know. I mustn’t stop, sir. I on’y come to tell you I was opening the front top winder, and see your funny friend, Mr Pacey, go into Smithson’s. He always do before he comes here.”
“Keren-Happuch!” came faintly from below.
“Comin’, mum,” cried the girl, and she dashed out of the studio.
“Poor, patient little drudge!” said Armstrong, half aloud. “Well washed, neatly clothed, spoken to kindly, and not worked to death, what a good faithful little lassie she would be for a house. I wish Cornel could see her, and see her with my eyes.”
He turned sharply, for there was a step—a heavy step—on the stair, and the artist’s sad face brightened.
“Good little prophetess too. Here’s old Joe at last. Where’s the incense-box?”
He took a tobacco-jar from a cupboard and placed it upon the nearest table, just as the door opened and a big, heavy, rough, grey-haired man entered, nodded, and, placing his soft felt hat upon his heavy stick, dropped into an easy-chair.