Mr. Copley was a little provoked.
"What's your objection to St. Leger? Can you give one?" he asked hotly.
"Father, he doesn't suit me."
"You don't like him, because you don't like him. A real woman's reason! Isn't he handsome?"
"Very. And sleepy."
"He's wide awake enough for purposes of business."
"Maybe; not for purposes of pleasure. Father, beautiful paintings and grand buildings are nothing to him; nothing at all; and music might be the tinkling of tin kettles for all the meaning he finds in it. Father, dear, do get me some customers!"
"You are a silly girl, Dolly!" said her father, breaking away, and not very well pleased. Neither did he bring her customers. Those were not the days of photographs. Dolly took to painting little bits of views in Venice; here a palace; there a bridge over a canal; the pillars with the dragon and St. Theodore, the Place of St. Mark, bits of the Riva with boats; she finished up these little pictures with great care and delicacy of execution, and then employed Rupert to dispose of them in the stationers' and fancy shops. He had some difficulty at first in finding the right market for her wares; however, he finally succeeded; and Dolly could sell as many pictures as she could paint. True, not for a great price; they did not pay so well as likenesses; but Dolly took what she could get, feeling very uncertain of supplies for a time that was coming. Mr. Copley certainly was not flush with his money now; and she did not flatter herself that his ways were mending.
Less and less did his wife and daughter see of his company.
"Rupert," said Dolly doubtfully, one day, "do you know where my father goes, so much of the time?"