“Well, she may go for that. Here Alice, you’re gwine to have your face painted—let me brush you up a little.”
“No—no, I pray madam, leave her to me. I will take her to my studio as she is; I would not have her appearance changed in the least—the drapery of the child does not need any alteration, I will bring her to you again in an hour.”
“Well, she’ll be safe enough, I ’spose, go on.”
“Are you going to paint my face, sir? What for? Will it hurt me?” asked Alice Flynn as she, with Martin, passed along the streets hand in hand.
“Not your face, child,” answered the artist, “I’m going to paint a face like yours—that is all.”
“What for?”
“To hang up in my room, and then perhaps to sell it some day for a great deal of money.”
“Sell me! sell my face!” and the little innocent laughed, and wondered why any body should want to buy a face like hers!
Martin, too busy with his own thoughts, made no answer to her many exclamations of astonishment and wonder. Two steps at a time, with the girl in his arms, did the delighted youth ascend the three steep and narrow flights of stairs which led to the poor little attic room he dignified with the “name, style, and title” of studio.
A barren place it seemed to little Alice Flynn, for such a nice gentleman to live in—indeed scarce a whit better than her own poor home was it.