‘You’ll allow me to fix the price?’ said Forster.
But there Madeline interfered.
‘No, Mr. White, you must not sell it; that is, you will sell it to no one but the original. How much must I give you for it? A thousand guineas? Two thousand? Tell me, and I’ll begin to save at once.’
She paused with sparkling eyes, looking into her guardian’s face.
‘Miss Hazelmere is right,’ said Forster; ‘she must keep the sketch as a souvenir of her childhood. No other person in the world has a right to possess it.’
No more was said on the subject, and White soon led the way into the adjoining house, there to dispense the hospitalities to his friend, who, however, soon took his leave, and departed by omnibus towards his home in South Kensington.
The night afterwards, however, Madeline saw his hearty face looking from a box in the theatre, and between the acts he came round to speak to her. He said little, but what he did say set her wits working, and the next morning she told White, as they sat at breakfast, that Mr. Forster had witnessed the performance on the previous evening.
‘Oh, indeed,’ said the dramatist with a pleased smile. ‘Did he come round?’
‘Yes, for a few minutes.’
‘It’s rather odd, and I think you may take it as a compliment. Forster doesn’t care for the drama as a rule.’