“Here,” said he, “are the plates I spoke of. Run them over, and pick out those that please ye.” The examination of the plates occupied perhaps a quarter-hour. When it was finished, Elias thanked the old man, and began to make his adieux. Then, abruptly, as though the question had but just occurred to him, “Oh, by the way,” he inquired, in a tone meant to be careless and casual, “can you tell me who that young lady was—the young lady I saw down at your place this afternoon?”
“Young lady?” queried Redwood, with a blank look, scratching his chin, and knitting his brow. “Down to my place? What young lady?”
“Why, a young lady with golden hair. You were talking to her when I came in.”
“Oh, with golden hair—oh, yes.” The blank look gave way to an intelligent and slightly quizzical one. “But why do you want to know?”
“She's such a remarkable bit of coloring,” explained Elias; “the finest I've seen this long while. I'd give my right hand to be allowed to paint her.”
“Your right hand! Rather a high offer that, ain't it?”
“Well, but there's not much danger of its being accepted.”
“I don't know,” said Redwood, reflectively, “I'm not so sure.”
“What?” cried Elias. The syllable did duty for expletive and interrogatory at the same time.
“I say I'm not sure but it might be managed.” Breathlessly: “But what might be managed?”