"Did I know you wanted me, Cornelius?"
"Did I know it myself? Now come in—look here—give me your opinion, your candid opinion."
When Cornelius asked for an opinion it was all very well, but when he asked for a candid opinion he would never tolerate any save that which he himself favoured. He was now in one of his most positive moods, so I prepared for submission—an easy task, for I always thought him in the right, and whatever my original opinion might have been, I invariably came back to his in the end, as to the only true one. He led me to his easel, on which I saw the long neglected Stolen Child.
"I had forgotten all about it," said Cornelius, "but finding this morning that I could not get on with Medora in the absence of Miriam, I looked amongst the old things, whence I fished out this. Now, admitting that it will not do for a picture, I think it will at least make an excellent study—eh?"
"Yes, Cornelius, a very good study indeed."
"Why not a picture?" he asked, frowning.
"It is not good enough," I replied, confidently.
"You silly little thing, you must have forgotten all about pictures and painting, to say so," rather hotly answered Cornelius. "Why a baby could tell you I never began anything that promised better. Oh, Daisy! what am I to think of your judgment? At all events," he added, softening down, "if you are not yet a first-rate critic, you are a first-rate sitter. So get ready. You need not mind about your Gipsy attire; all I want is the face and attitude."
I looked at the picture, drew back a few steps, and placed myself in the old position.
"The very thing," cried Cornelius, delighted. "Oh, Daisy, you are invaluable to me."