“Yes. You will be, when you are a man.”
The sound of voices rose suddenly in the hall.
“Tom!” cried Miss Deleglise; and collecting her skirt in both hands, bolted down the corkscrew staircase leading to the kitchen, leaving me standing in the centre of the studio.
The door opened and old Deleglise entered, accompanied by a small, slight man with red hair and beard and somewhat watery eyes.
Deleglise himself was a handsome old fellow, then a man of about fifty-five. His massive, mobile face, illuminated by bright, restless eyes, was crowned with a lion-like mane of iron-grey hair. Till a few years ago he had been a painter of considerable note. But in questions of art his temper was short. Pre-Raphaelism had gone out of fashion for the time being; the tendency of the new age was towards impressionism, and in disgust old Deleglise had broken his palette across his knee, and swore never to paint again. Artistic work of some sort being necessary to his temperament, he contented himself now with engraving. At the moment he was engaged upon the reproduction of Memlinc's Shrine of St. Ursula, with photographs of which he had just returned from Bruges.
At sight of me his face lighted with a smile, and he advanced with outstretched hand.
“Ah; my lad, so you have got over your shyness and come to visit the old bear in his den. Good boy. I like young faces.”
He had a clear, musical voice, ever with the suggestion of a laugh behind it. He laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“Why, you are looking as if you had come into a fortune,” he added, “and didn't know what a piece of bad luck that can be to a young fellow like yourself.”
“How could it be bad luck?” I asked, laughing.