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Waterlow's compassion was slightly tinged with contempt, for there was being settled above all, it seemed to him, and, alas, in the wrong sense, the question of his poor friend's character. Gaston was in a fever; he broke out into passionate pleas he relapsed into gloomy silences.
According to Gaston's plan she was to come to the Avenue de Villiers to see what the artist had done for Miss Francie; her brother was to have worked upon her in advance by his careful rhapsodies, bearing wholly on the achievement itself, the dazzling example of Waterlow's powers, and not on the young lady, whom he was not to let her know at first that he had so much as seen.
How could he know such things? and they all so infamously false!" The poor woman poured forth her woe in questions, contradictions, lamentations; she didn't know what to ask first, against what to protest. "Do you mean that wretch Marguerite saw you with at Mr. Waterlow's? Oh Francie, what has happened? She had a feeling then, a dreadful foreboding.
He had not, for himself, any very high sense of performance, but what kept it down particularly was his untractable hand, the fact that, such as they were, Waterlow's purples and greens, for instance, were far beyond him.
Gaston had explained, and he had still further to expound what he meant by the old game. The brand-newness of Charles Waterlow's game had already been a bewilderment to Mr. Probert. Francie remembered now she had forgotten it Margaret de Cliche's having told her she meant to come again. She hoped the marquise thought by this time that, on canvas at least, she looked a little more like a lady.
My sister perhaps will have told you of the apprehensions I had I couldn't resist them, though I thought of nothing so awful as this, God knows the day I met you at Mr. Waterlow's with your journalist." "I've told her everything don't you see she's aneantie? Let her go, let her go!" cried Mme. de Brecourt all distrustfully and still at the window.
This fact is the more noteworthy as he knew that Waterlow scoffed at him for a purpose had a view of the good to be done him by throwing him on the defensive. The French tradition, or a grimacing ghost of it, was in Waterlow's "manner," but it had not made its mark on his view of the relations of a young man of spirit with parents and pastors.
"If we hadn't known him we shouldn't have known YOU. Remember it was Mr. Flack who brought us that day to Mr. Waterlow's." "Oh you'd have come some other way," said Gaston, who made nothing of that. "Not in the least. We knew nothing about any other way. He helped us in everything he showed us everything. That was why I told him when he asked me. I liked him for what he had done."
He prayed earnestly, in relation to such a triumph, for a providential re-enforcement of Waterlow's sense of that source of charm. If Waterlow had a fault it was that his freshnesses were sometimes too crude. He avenged himself for the artist's profanation of his first attempt to approach Miss Francie by indulging at the end of another week in a second.
He could hardly help smiling. His calm touch reassured her. "Do you think you need ask, Anne? The next year Dr. Mair called upon me again it was the evening before the boy was christened; he had come to London on business of his own. To my dismay, he told me that a change for the better was appearing in Miss Waterlow's mental condition; and he thought it likely she might be restored to health.
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