had originally seen her at a music-hall, and had persuaded her to come
and sit to him. The comic haste and relief with which he had now
transferred her to Bentley lost nothing in Bentley's telling. Of course
she had "a fiend of a temper." "Wish you joy of her! Oh, don't ask me
about her! You'll find out for yourself." "I can manage her," said Uncle
Charles tranquilly. "I've had so many of 'em."

"She is Spanish?"

"Not at all. She is Italian. That is to say, her mother was a
Neapolitan, the daughter of a jeweller in Hatton Garden, and her father
an English bank clerk. The Neapolitans have a lot of Spanish blood in
them--hence, no doubt, the physique."

"And she is a professional model!"

"Nothing of the sort!--though she will probably become one. She is a
writer--Heaven save the mark!--and I have to pay her vast sums to get
her. It is the greatest favour."

"A _writer_?"

"Poetess!--and journalist!" said Uncle Charles, enjoying Doris's
puzzled look. "She sent me her poems yesterday. As to journalism"--his
eyes twinkled--"I say nothing--but this. Watch her _hats_! She has the
reputation--in certain circles--of being the best-hatted woman in
London. All this I get from the man who handed her on to me. As I said
to him, it depends on what 'London' you mean."

"Married?"