“Oh, Dick,” she cried, putting both her hands into the broad palm held out before her, “is it really you? Who would have thought of seeing you in Paris?”
“Or you, Miss Vane? We heard you were at school at Brixton.”
“Yes, Dick,” the young lady answered, “but I have come home now. Papa lives here, you know, and I am going to a finishing school in the Bois de Boulogne, and then I am going to be a morning governess, and live with papa always.”
“You are a great deal too pretty for a governess,” said the young man, looking admiringly at the bright face lifted up to him; “your mistress would snub you. Miss Vane, you’d better——”
“What, Dick?”
“Try our shop.”
“What, be a scene-painter, Dick?” cried Eleanor, laughing, “It would be funny for a woman to be a scene-painter.”
“Of course, Miss Vane. But nobody talked of scene-painting. You don’t suppose I’d ask you to stand on the top of a ladder to put in skies and backgrounds, do you? There are other occupations at the Royal Waterloo Phœnix besides scene-painting. But I don’t want to talk to you about that: I know how savage your poor old dad used to be when we talked of the Phœnix. What do you think I am over here for?”
“What, Richard?”
“Why, they’re doing a great drama in eight acts and thirty-two tableaux at the Porte St. Martin; Raoul l’Empoisonneur it’s called, Ralph the Poisoner; and I’m over here to pick up the music, sketch the scenery and effects, and translate the play. Something like versatility there, I think, for five-and-thirty shillings a week.”