"And your father had intended that you should become a painter?"
Unconsciously, he found himself speaking of the late Michael Duveen as of one belonging to his own station in life, nor did the wild appearance and sometimes uncouth language of Flamby serve wholly to disguise the blue streak in her blood.
"When he was sober," she replied, and suddenly bursting into gay laughter she snatched the drawing and turned away, waving her hand to Paul. "Goodbye, Mr. Mario," she cried. "I like you heaps better than your uncle!"
Her impudence was delicious, and Paul detained her. "You must not run away like that," he said. "Captain Courtier made me promise that I would arrange for you to pursue your art studies——"
Flamby shook her head. "How can I do that?" she asked, in a gust of scorn. Then, as suddenly, her gaze grew wrapt and her face flushed. "But how I would love to!" she whispered.
"You shall. It is all arranged," declared Paul earnestly. "The—special pension which your mother will receive and which Captain Courtier is arranging will be sufficient to cover all costs."
Flamby looked up at him, her eyes aglow with excitement. "Oh, Mr. Mario," she said, "please don't think me ungrateful and a little beast; but—is it true?"
"Why should I mislead you in the matter, Flamby?"
"I don't know; but—if you knew how I've longed and longed to be able to go to London, among people who understand; to get away from these men and women who are really half vegetables!"
Paul laughed gaily. "But you love the country?"