But the young artist was fastidious. “It is strange,” he thought, “how few there are, even in the freshness of childhood, that can be called models of beauty. That child, for example, has beautiful eyes but a badly-cut mouth, Here is one that would be pretty, if the face was rounded out; and here is a child, Heaven help it! that was designed to be beautiful, but want and unfavorable circumstances have pinched and cramped it.”
It was at this point in the artist's soliloquy that, in turning the corner of a street, he came upon Peg and Ida.
Henry Bowen looked earnestly at the child's face, and his own lighted up with pleasure, as one who stumbles upon success just as he has despaired of it.
“The very face I have been looking for!” he exclaimed to himself. “My flower-girl is found at last!”
He turned round, and followed Ida and her companion. Both stopped at a shop-window to examine some articles which were exhibited there. This afforded a fresh opportunity to examine Ida's face.
“It is precisely what I want,” he murmured. “Now the question comes up, whether this woman, who, I suppose, is the girl's attendant, will permit me to copy her face.”
The artist's inference that Peg was merely Ida's attendant, was natural, since the child was dressed in a style quite superior to her companion. Peg thought that in this way she should be more likely to escape suspicion when occupied in passing spurious coin.
The young man followed the strangely-assorted pair to the apartments which Peg occupied. From the conversation which he overheard he learned that he had been mistaken in his supposition as to the relation between the two, and that, singular as it seemed, Peg had the guardianship of the child. This made his course clearer. He mounted the stairs, and knocked at the door.
“What do you want?” said a sharp voice from within.
“I should like to see you a moment,” was the reply.