“Indeed, I might give you a hint,” said Dick. “Although no artist myself, I have known many; in Paris I had many for friends, and used to prowl among studios.”
“In Paris?” she cried, with a leap of light into her eyes. “Did you ever meet Mr. Van Tromp?”
“I? Yes. Why, you’re not the Admiral’s daughter, are you?”
“The Admiral? Do they call him that?” she cried. “Oh, how nice, how nice of them! It is the younger men who call him so, is it not?”
“Yes,” said Dick, somewhat heavily.
“You can understand now,” she said, with an unspeakable accent of contented and noble-minded pride, “why it is I do not choose to show my sketch. Van Tromp’s daughter! The Admiral’s daughter! I delight in that name. The Admiral! And so you know my father?”
“Well,” said Dick, “I met him often; we were even intimate. He may have mentioned my name—Naseby.”
“He writes so little. He is so busy, so devoted to his art! I have had a half wish,” she added, laughing, “that my father was a plainer man whom I could help—to whom I could be a credit; but only sometimes, you know, and with only half my heart. For a great painter! You have seen his works?”
“I have seen some of them,” returned Dick; “they—they are very nice.”
She laughed aloud. “Nice?” she repeated. “I see you don’t care much for art.”