human
You must be aware why we come, sir; Mr. Merle will have explained. My friend, a distinguished artist, wished to make a sketch, if you do not object, of this young lady's very
gpt
Pretty little face, quoth Vance, taking up the dis course.
human
Mr. Rugge, this morning, was willing,--I understand that your grandchild refused. We are come here to see if she will be more complaisant under your own roof, or Under Mr. Merle's, which, I take it, is the same thing for the present. --Sophy had sidled up to Lionel. He might not have been flattered if be knew why she preferred him to Vance. She looked on him as a boy, a fellow-child; and an instinct, moreover, told her, that more easily through him than his shrewd-looking bearded guest could she attain the object of her cupidity,--
gpt
Three pounds!
human
Sir, I will be frank with you. At that ominous commencement, Mr. Vance recoiled, and mechanically buttoned his trousers pocket. Mr. Waife noted the gesture with his one eye, and proceeded cautiously, feeling his way, as it were, towards the interior of the recess thus protected.
gpt
My grandchild declined your flattering proposal with my full approbation. She did not consider--neither did I--that the managerial rights of Mr. Rugge entitled him to the moiety of her face-- off the stage.
human
You see before you an old man: one way of life is the same to me as another. But she,--do you think Mr. Rugge's stage the right place for her?
gpt
Certainly not. Why did you not introduce her to the London Manager who would have engaged yourself?
human
How do I know she would have succeeded? She had never then trod the boards. Besides, what strikes you as so good in a village show may be poor enough in a metropolitan theatre. Gentlemen, I do my best for her; you cannot think otherwise, since she maintains me! I am no OEdipus, yet she is my Antigone.
gpt
You know the classics, sir. Mr. Merle said you were a scholar! --read Sophocles in his native Greek, I presume, sir?
human
You jeer at the unfortunate: I am used to it.
gpt
I did not mean to wound you: I beg pardon. But your language and manner are not what--what one might expect to find in a--in a--Bandit persecuted by a remorseless Baron.
human
Sir, you say you are an artist. Have you heard no tales of your professional brethren,--men of genius the highest, who won fame, which I never did, and failed of fortunes, as I have done? Their own fault, perhaps,--improvidence, wild habits, ignorance of the way how to treat life and deal with their fellow-men; such fault may have been mine too. I suffer for it: no matter; I ask none to save me. You are a painter: you would place her features on your canvas; you would have her rank amongst your own creations. She may become a part of your immortality. Princes may gaze on the effigies of the innocent happy childhood, to which your colours lend imperishable glow. They may ask who and what was this fair creature? Will you answer, 'One whom I found in tinsel, and so left, sure that she would die in rags!'--Save her!