“Raly, sir, that ain’t nessary,” said “The Emperor,” holding out his hand.—“Oh, well, sir, if you will be so gen’rous, why, ’tain’t for me to stop you.—Good mornin’, sir, good mornin’.”
Chapter Twelve.
The New Model.
Two days passed, and Dale was standing, brush in hand, before his canvas, thinking. He had made up his mind to trust to his imagination to a great extent for the finishing of Juno’s figure: this, with the many classic sketches he had made in Greece and Rome, would, he believed, enable him to be pretty well independent. He was in better spirits, for he had heard nothing from Portland Place, and flattered himself that the impression which had troubled him was growing fainter.
“Come in,” he cried, as there was a tap at the door, and Keren-Happuch appeared, evidently fresh from a study in black-lead, and holding a card between a finger and thumb, guarded by her apron.
“Here’s a model, sir, and she give me this.”
Dale took a very dirty card, which looked as if it had been for some time in an old waistcoat pocket. Printed thereon were the words—“D. Jaggs. Head and face. Roman fathers, etc,” and written on the back in pencil, in Jaggs’ cramped hand—
“Signora Azatchy Figgers.”