“See, Pierre!” said Lucy, holding out her little palm, “see; this handful of charcoal, a bit of bread, a crayon or two, and a square of paper:—that is all.”
“Well, then, thou shalt charge one-seventy-five for a portrait.”
“Only one-seventy-five, Pierre?”
“I am half afraid now we have set it far too high, Lucy. Thou must not be extravagant. Look: if thy terms were ten dollars, and thou didst crayon on trust; then thou wouldst have plenty of sitters, but small returns. But if thou puttest thy terms right-down, and also sayest thou must have thy cash right-down too—don’t start so at that cash—then not so many sitters to be sure, but more returns. Thou understandest.”
“It shall be just as thou say’st, Pierre.”
“Well, then, I will write a card for thee, stating thy terms; and put it up conspicuously in thy room, so that every Apostle may know what he has to expect.”
“Thank thee, thank thee, cousin Pierre,” said Lucy, rising. “I rejoice at thy pleasant and not entirely unhopeful view of my poor little plan. But I must be doing something; I must be earning money. See, I have eaten ever so much bread this morning, but have not earned one penny.”
With a humorous sadness Pierre measured the large remainder of the one only piece she had touched, and then would have spoken banteringly to her; but she had slid away into her own room.
He was presently roused from the strange revery into which the conclusion of this scene had thrown him, by the touch of Isabel’s hand upon his knee, and her large expressive glance upon his face. During all the foregoing colloquy, she had remained entirely silent; but an unoccupied observer would perhaps have noticed, that some new and very strong emotions were restrainedly stirring within her.
“Pierre!” she said, intently bending over toward him.