The sun was not more punctual to his hour of rising than was the visit of Mr. Mudge, the landlord, to the lodging of the artist.
“Well,” said he, abruptly, “have you got the rent ready? I can’t wait a day longer.”
“Nor will it be necessary,” said Mrs. Elliott, calmly. “Here is the money.”
Mr. Mudge, notwithstanding his love of money, looked a little disappointed at this ready payment. His mind was essentially a vulgar one; and he felt an instinctive aversion to Mrs. Elliott, whose superiority to himself he could not help admitting. He had hoped to have the pleasure of turning them out.
“Well, they won’t always have ready money,” was his internal reflection; “and, the first good excuse I have, they shall go, bag and baggage.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Elliott was making progress on his painting.
“You deserve the prize, Arthur,” said his wife, after gazing admiringly upon her husband’s work,—“you deserve it; and I hope that you will be successful in obtaining it.”
“It has cost me many hours of hard labor,” said the artist, wearily, as he laid aside his pallet for a moment, and passed his hand across his brow. “I never felt so great an interest in a picture before; and now two days’ labor, I think, will complete it. It needs but a few touches.”
As he spoke, Mary saw an unnatural flush upon his cheek, and that his eye glowed with an unusual brilliancy. She was alarmed.