“Oh, Pa, he’ll kill her!” whispered Lily, when she saw Ave Maria practising.
“It’s none of our damned business,” replied Pa curtly.
Martello’s evil example ended by catching hold of Pa: that’s how artistes were formed, damn it! And, at the thought of the time wasted, he clenched his fists. To have a Lily of his own, all his own, and to have made nothing out of her yet! Still, it was not Lily’s fault. Yes, though, it was her fault, she was so stubborn, so wilful! When he told her to do a thing, why not do it? Instead of bleating:
“Pa, I can’t! Pa, I can’t!”
A brief struggle, in a way, followed between Lily and her Pa. Lily was not built for passive obedience, wasn’t used to it. She no longer knew her Pa. When he came at her with his hand lifted to strike, when he spoke of unbuckling his belt—“Damn those blasted brats!”—Lily eyed him with a look of anguish:
“But Pa, I’m not Ave Maria!” she said. “I’m not a Dago.”
And she raised her little rebellious face to him. He humbled her with a smack on the cheek:
“On the saddle! Up! Quick!”
The child, mastered by her Pa’s strength and energy, ceased to be the spoiled child, became an artiste.... Head on the saddle, back-wheel: just like Trampy! Pooh, Trampy, after a few months of this life, was nowhere, Clifton admired him less and less, Lily was doing all that he did, more than he did; and without a fault, without a hitch, unerring and exact! Pa swelled with pride at the mere sight of his Lily, his four stone ten of flesh and bones fitted to the machine, his Lily, the Lily of his dreams!
“I’ll dress you in velvet and satin!” he said, in his enthusiasm. “I’ll cover you with diamonds.”