“Stop!” she cries suddenly. Drawing me in the direction of a small crowd; “let’s watch the silhouette man.”
He is young, glib, good-looking. He has audacious eyes and a rapscallion smile. This smile is sometimes positively impish in its mockery; yet otherwise he is rather like a cherub. His complexion is pinkish, his manner mercurial, his figure shapely and slim. He is dressed in the cloak, broad-brimmed hat, and voluminous velveteen trousers of the rapin. I stare at him. Something vaguely familiar in him startles me.
In one hand he holds a double sheet of black paper, in the other a pair of scissors. For a moment he looks keenly at his subject, then getting the best angle for the profile, proceeds without any more ado to cut the silhouette. It is a very deft, delicate performance and all over in a minute.
“Just watch him, Anastasia,” I say after a pause; “I think there’s something interesting going to happen.” Then in a drawling voice I remark:
“Well, if that’s not a dead ringer for Livewire Lorrimer!”
He hears me, looks up like a flash, scrutinises me in a puzzled way.
“I haven’t heard that name for fifteen years. Of all the—why, if it isn’t Jimmy Madden, Mad Madden, Blackbeard the pirate, Red Hand the scout, friend of my boyhood! I say! there’s a dozen people waiting and this is my busy day. Ask your friend to stand up to the light and I’ll make a silhouette of her while we talk.”
“My wife.”
“Bless us! Married too! Well, congratulations. Charmed to meet Madame. There! Just stand so.”
With great dexterity he proceeds to cut Anastasia’s delicate features on the black paper.