"Maestro, you are not alone!" she said in a deep, reproachful voice.
"My niece, Mrs. Meadows--Madame Vavasour," said Bentley, ushering in the
new-comer.
Doris turned from her easel and bowed, only to receive a rather scowling
response.
"And your friend?" As he spoke the artist looked blandly at the young
man.
"I brought him to amuse me, Maestro. When I am dull my countenance
changes, and you cannot do it justice. He will talk to me--I shall be
animated--and you will profit."
"Ah, no doubt!" said Bentley, smiling. "And your friend's name?"
"Herbert Dunstable--Honourable Herbert Dunstable!--Signor Bentley," said
Madame Vavasour, advancing with a stately step into the room, and waving
peremptorily to the young man to follow.
Doris sat transfixed and staring. Bentley turned to look at his niece,
and their eyes met--his full of suppressed mirth. The son!--the
unsatisfactory son! Doris remembered that his name was Herbert. In the
train of this third-rate sorceress!
Her thoughts ran excitedly to the distant moors, and that magnificent
lady, with her circle of distinguished persons, holiday-making
statesmen, peers, diplomats, writers, and the like.
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