He still had in his possession one object, which, if
pawned, might furnish enough money to pay for a meal. It was a little seal, belonging to his mother, set in old gold.
This afternoon, before leaving the studio, he had thrust it in his waistcoat pocket, in case the little statuette did not sell.
They gave him five francs for it, and he laid in a stock of provisions, and with his little parcel once more he limped up the studio stairs to Dearborn, who, wrapped in the coverlet, waited by the stove.
He told his story, and Dearborn listened delightedly, his literary and dramatic sense pleased by the adventure.
They were talking of the lady when the concierge, toward nine o'clock, tapped at the door and handed Antony a thick blue envelope, inscribed "Mr. Thomas Rainsford" by a woman's hand.
"Tony, old man," said the playwright, as Antony's fingers trembled turning the page, "the romance of a poor young man has begun."
The letter ran as follows:—
"My dear Mr. Rainsford,
"I am anxious to have a small bas-relief of me, to give to Mr. Cedersholm when he shall come over. Would you have time to undertake this work? I can pose when you like.
"I know how many claims a man of talent has upon his time, and I want to secure some of yours and make it mine. I venture to send this sum in advance. I hope you will not refuse it. Perhaps you will dine with me to-morrow and we will talk things over.
"Yours faithfully,
"Mary Faversham."