Meanwhile, the visitor walked briskly into the studio. He was a small, dark man, and his dress was somewhat Bohemian; he had a brown velveteen coat, and a yellow rose in his buttonhole, and he had bright, clear eyes, that saw everything worth seeing, and a good deal that ordinary folk failed to see—not that people always found this out. He had plenty of time for observation, and when he had grown a little weary of his solitude, he made a tour of the room. He stood for some time by Mollie's painting table. The menu cards struck him as very pretty and graceful in their design.
"My good little Samaritan is artistic, I see," he said to himself; "but there was no need for her to put on her best frock because a stranger called. But vanity and women are synonymous terms." And after this atrocious sentiment—which all women would utterly repudiate—he looked curiously at a framed picture standing on the floor.
"'Canute and his Courtiers.' Yes, I see; rather stale, that sort of thing. 'Canute' decidedly wooden, ambitious, but amateurish—wants force and expression." And then he shook his head. "Hulloa, what have we here?" and he stepped up to the easel.
It was a roughly executed sketch in crayon and was evidently a boy's work; but in spite of considerable crudeness, it was not without spirit.
A young lady was stepping down from an omnibus, and a queer little man in a peaked hat, and a huge moustache, was handing her out. He was grinning from ear to ear, and in his other hand was a sixpence.
"Your eternally obliged Monsieur Blackie," was written under the picture.
The visitor seemed puzzled; then a light dawned. Finally he threw back his head and laughed aloud. "We have a humourist here," he said to himself; and to restore his gravity, he began walking up and down the room; but every time he passed the easel he laughed again. "This is clearly not my little Samaritan," he said to himself. He had brought in a beautiful bouquet, and had laid it down on the round table. Every few minutes he took it up and looked at the door.
The household was certainly a peculiar one. An extraordinary young female, with her face tied up in flannel, had shown him upstairs after telling him that Miss Ward was in. He had been waiting nearly twenty minutes. Should he ring the bell? But there was no bell—not a semblance of one. Then he thought he would leave the flowers and the sixpence, with his card. Yes, perhaps that would be best. And then he hesitated. It was very absurd, but he rather wanted to see the little girl again; there was something so bright and piquant about her. Perhaps she was keeping out of the way on purpose. Perhaps Monsieur Blackie—and here he laughed afresh—was not to her taste. No sooner did this idea come into his head than, with manlike perversity, he determined to persevere.
He walked downstairs and into the dining-room. Here fresh amusement awaited him in the inscription, "Noel Ward, his Study."
"My friend the humourist again," he said softly; and then he pricked up his ears, for in some back premises he could distinctly hear a very clear, sweet girlish voice. He stole into the passage to listen.