The Tiger Lily. Fenn George Manville

never come back. He’ll marry some fine madam in the old country.”

      Cornel winced, and her eyes dilated as these words stung her; but the pang was momentary, and she laughed in the full tide of her happy trust in the man she loved.

      “You mark my words, Cornel,” said the old man; “that fellow will throw you over, and then that will set your monkey up, and you’ll come and ask me to marry you, and I will. The folks ’ll all laugh, but let ’em. We shall be all right, little one. I shall have a sweet little nurse and housekeeper to take care of me to the end, and you’ll have an ugly, cantankerous old husband, who won’t live very long, and will die and leave you a million dollars, so that you can laugh at the whole world, and be the prettiest little widow in Boston – bah! in the whole States – and with too much good sense to throw yourself away. – Who’s that?”

      “Doctor,” said Michael Thorpe, entering. “How is he, Cornel?”

      “Getting better fast; so well this morning that he is saying all kinds of harsh and cruel things.”

      “Capital sign,” said the young surgeon. – “Yes, capital. Why, you are splendid, Mr Masters, and at the end of only a week.”

      “Oh, I’m better. Only said you were mad to want to go to Europe; and that she’s worse to pin her faith to a gad-about artist who’ll only break her heart.”

      Michael Thorpe’s stern, thoughtful face expanded into a pleasant smile.

      “Yes, Cornel dear,” he said; “there’s no doubt about it; he’s mending fast. I’ll book my cabin in one of the Allan boats for about the beginning of next month. You will not be able to go.”

      Chapter Three.

      A Fair Client

      A noble-looking specimen of humanity, with a grand grizzly head, and strongly marked aquiline features, lit up by deeply set, piercing eyes, got out of a four-wheeler at Number 409 Portland Place, knocking off a very shabby hat in the process.

      “Mind the nap, guv’nor,” said the battered-looking driver with a laugh, as his fare stooped to pick up the fallen edifice; and as he spoke, the man’s look took in the ill-fitting coat and patched boots of him whom he had driven only from Fitzroy Square.

      “Not the first time that’s been down, cabby. Hand ’em off.”

      A minute later, Daniel Jaggs, familiarly known in art circles as “The Emperor,” and by visitors to the Royal Academy from his noble face, which had appeared over the bodies of noble Romans and heroes of great variety, stood on the pavement with an easel under one arm, a large blank canvas under the other, and a flat japanned box of oil colours and case of brushes held half hidden by beard, beneath his chin.

      He walked up to the door of the great mansion, whose window-sills and portico were gay with fresh flowers, and gave a vigorous tug at the bell.

      The double doors flew open almost directly, and “The Emperor” was faced by a portly butler, who was flanked by a couple of men in livery.

      “Oh! the painters traps,” said the former. “Look here, my good fellow; you should have rung the other bell. Step inside.”

      “The Emperor” obeyed, and, leaving the visitor waiting in the handsome hall, in company with the footman and under-butler, who looked rather superciliously at the well-worn garments of the artist’s model, the out-of-livery servant walked slowly up the broad staircase to the drawing-room, and as slowly returned, to stand beckoning.

      “You are to bring them up yourself,” he said haughtily.

      Daniel Jaggs placed his hat upon one of the crest-blazoned hall chairs, loaded himself well with the artistic impedimenta, and then went forward to the foot of the stairs up which the butler was leading the way, when, hearing a sound, he turned sharply.

      “Here! Hi!” he cried loudly; “what are you going to do with that ’at?”

      For one of the footmen was putting it out of sight, disgusted with the appearance of the dirty lining.

      “Hush! Recollect where you are,” whispered the butler. “Her ladyship will hear.”

      “But that’s my best ’at,” grumbled the model, and then he subsided into silence as he was ushered into a magnificently furnished room; the door was closed behind him, and he stood staring round, thinking of backgrounds, when there was the rustling of silk, and “The Emperor” was dazzled, staring, as he told himself, at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

      Valentina, Contessa Dellatoria, was worthy of the man’s admiration as she stood there with her dark eyes half veiled by their long lashes, in all the proud matured beauty of a woman of thirty, who could command every resource of jewel and robe to heighten the charms with which nature had liberally endowed her. She was beautiful; she knew it; and at those moments, eager with anticipations which had heightened the colour in her creamy cheeks, and the lustre in her eyes, she stood ready to be amused as she thoroughly grasped the meaning of the man’s astonished gaze.

      “You have brought those from Mr Dale, have you not?” she said at last, in a rich, soft voice.

      “Yes, my lady. I ’ave, my lady. The heasel and canvas, my lady.”

      “Perhaps you had better bring them into this room.”

      “Yes, my lady – of course, my lady,” said the model eagerly, as he blundered after the Contessa, “The Emperor’s” rather shambling movements, being due to a general looseness of joint, in no wise according with the majesty of his head and face.

      “Yes; about there. That will do; they are sure to be moved.”

      “Oh yes, my lady, on account of the light. Mr Dale’s very partickler.”

      “Indeed? Will he be here soon?”

      “Direc’ly, I should say, my lady. He bordered me to bring on his traps.”

      “From his studio?” said the lady, sinking into a chair, and taking a purse from a little basket on a table.

      “The Emperor’s” eyesight was very good, and the movement suggested pleasant things. The lady, too, seemed disposed to question him, and he winked to himself mentally, as he glanced at the beautiful face before him, thought of his employer’s youth and good looks, and then had sundry other thoughts, such as might occur to a man of a very ordinary world.

      But his hands were not idle; they were as busy as his thoughts, and he spread the legs of the easel, and altered the position of the pegs ready for the canvas.

      “Will you take this – for your trouble?” came in that soft, rich, thrilling voice.

      “Oh no – thank you, my lady – that ain’t necessary,” said the man hastily, as his fingers closed over the coin extended with a smile by fingers glittering with jewels. – “A suv, by jingo,” he added to himself.

      “Are you Mr Dale’s servant?”

      “No, ma’am – my lady. Oh, dear, no. An old friend – that is, you know, I sit for him – and stand. I’m in a many of his pictures.”

      “Oh, I see. He takes your portrait?”

      “Well, no, my lady; portraits is quite another line. I meant for his gennery pictures.”

      “Genre?”

      “Yes, my lady. I was standing for Crackticus that day when you and his lordship come to the studio.”

      “Indeed? I did not see you.”

      “No, my lady. I had to go into the next room. You see I was a hancient Briton, and not sootable for or’nary society ’cept in a picture. – I think that’ll do, my lady. He’ll alter it to his taste.”

      “Yes, but – er – does Mr Dale paint many portraits of ladies?” said the Contessa, detaining the model as he made as if to depart.

      “Oh no, my lady. I never knew him do such a thing afore. He never works away from his studio, and he went on a deal about