RODERICK HUDSON
Rowland had begun to murmur some remedial proposition when he was interrupted by the voice of Miss Light calling across the room, "Mamma!"
"My own love?"
"This gentleman wishes to model my bust. Please speak to him about it."
The Cavaliere emitted a sound between a growl and a giggle. "Already? Santo Dio!" he cried.
Rowland looked round, equally surprised at the promptitude of the proposal. Roderick stood planted before the girl with his arms folded, looking at her as he would have done at the Medicean Venus. He never paid cheap compliments, and Rowland, though he had not heard him speak, could imagine the startling distinctness with which he made his request.
"He saw me a year ago," Miss Light went on, "and he has been thinking of me ever since." Her mode of speech was peculiar; it had a kind of studied inexpressiveness which was yet not the conscious drawl of affectation.
"I must make your daughter's bust — that's all, madam!" cried Roderick with warmth.
"I would rather you should make the poodle's," this young lady returned. "Is it very very tiresome? I 've spent half my life sitting for my photograph, in every conceivable attitude and with every conceivable coiffure. It seems to me I 've posed enough."
"My dear child," said Mrs. Light, "it may be one's duty to pose! But as to my daughter's sitting to you, sir — to a young artist whom we don't know — it 's a matter that one must look at a little. It 's not a favour that 's to be had for the mere asking."
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