of penny ballads. He was just (in my idea) an intrepid young adventurer, a charming vagabond, with enough of sense and courage in him to become anything he chose.
For the nonce he chose to be a woman of quality. Therefore he was that woman, plus a dash of native devilry that she was born without. The way he played his eyes, the archness of his simpering, his ringing laugh, the sauciness that salted all he said, his smiling rogueries, his dimpled impudence, his downright, damnable adorableness, he appeared to put on with his dress, and wore with the elegant propriety of one who had dwelt in Spring Gardens all her days.
"My lad," says I, "you step a point beyond me quite. Here have you picked up Saccharissa's every trick in twenty minutes. 'Tis a miracle, I'll swear."
"Fudge," says he, "'tis no miracle. The living model is before me, and the rest is no more than a painter does when he transfers that model to a canvas. You twist your lips into a smile, and see—I ape 'em with my own." And the very trick I had of sardonically smiling from the corners of my mouth he immediately copied with marvellous fidelity.
"My Lady Barbara," says he, "you once disdained me with a glance. Here is the one you did it with."
Straight he gathered all his inches up and gazed down upon Emblem and myself with a severity aw-
