"Well, you tell a lie."
"Couldn't I say I don't dance well, and that I'm sure they'd get on better with somebody else?"
"It would be the truth, but they might not believe it."
"I hope nobody asks me that I don't want."
"Well, he won't a second time, anyhow."
"You are rude."
"You are only a school-girl."
"I look a woman in my new frock, I really do."
"I should doubt it."
"You shall see me, then you'll be polite. It is because you are a boy you are rude. Men are much nicer."
"Oh, are they?"
"Yes. You will be, when you are a man."
The sound of voices rose suddenly in the hall.
"Tom!" cried Miss Deleglise; and collecting her skirt in both hands, bolted down the corkscrew staircase leading to the kitchen, leaving me standing in the centre of the studio.
The door opened and old Deleglise entered, accompanied by a small, slight man with red hair and beard and somewhat watery eyes.
Deleglise himself was a handsome old fellow, then a man of about fifty-five. His massive, mobile face, illuminated by bright, restless eyes, was crowned with a lion-like mane of iron-grey hair. Till a few years ago he had been a painter of considerable note. But in questions of art his temper was short. Pre-Raphaelism had gone out of fashion for the time being; the tendency of the new age was towards impressionism, and in disgust old Deleglise had broken his palette across his knee, and swore never to paint again. Artistic work of some sort being necessary to his temperament, he contented himself now with engraving. At the moment he was engaged upon the reproduction of Memlinc's Shrine of St. Ursula, with photographs of which he had just returned from Bruges.
At sight of me his face lighted with a smile, and he advanced with outstretched hand.
"Ah; my lad, so you have got over your shyness and come to visit the old bear in his den. Good boy. I like young faces."
He had a clear, musical voice, ever with the suggestion of a laugh behind it. He laid his hand upon my shoulder.
"Why, you are looking as if you had come into a fortune," he added, "and didn't know what a piece of bad luck that can be to a young fellow like yourself."
"How could it be bad luck?" I asked, laughing.
"Takes all the sauce out of life, young man," answered Deleglise.
"What interest is there in running a race with the prize already in your possession, tell me that?"
"It is not that kind of fortune," I answered, "it is another. I have had my first story accepted. It is in print. Look."
I handed him the paper. He spread it out upon the engraving board before him.
"Ah, that's better," he said, "that's better. Charlie," he turned to the red-headed man, who had seated himself listlessly in the one easy-chair the room contained, "come here."
The red-headed man rose and wandered towards us. "Let me introduce you to Mr. Paul Kelver, our new fellow servant. Our lady has accepted him. He has just been elected; his first story is in print."
The red-haired man stretched out his long thin hand. "I have thirty years of fame," said the red-haired man--"could I say world-wide?"
He turned for confirmation to old Deleglise, who laughed. "I think you can."
"If I could give it you would you exchange with me--at this moment?"