“With a sister, then, so elderly!” rejoined Felix, laughing. “I hoped we had left seriousness in Europe.” “I fancy you will find it here. Remember that you are nearly thirty years old, and that you are nothing but an obscure Bohemian—a penniless correspondent of an illustrated newspaper.” “Obscure as much as you please, but not so much of a Bohemian as you think. And not at all penniless! I have a hundred pounds in my pocket. I have an engagement to make fifty sketches, and I mean to paint the portraits of all our cousins, and of all _their_ cousins, at a hundred dollars a head.” “You are not ambitious,” said Eugenia. “You are, dear Baroness,” the young man replied. The Baroness was silent a moment, looking out at the sleet-darkened graveyard and the bumping horse-cars. “Yes, I am ambitious,” she said at last. “And my ambition has brought me to this dreadful place!” She glanced about her—the room had a certain vulgar nudity; the bed and the window were curtainless—and she gave a little passionate sigh. “Poor old ambition!” she exclaimed. Then she flung herself down upon a sofa which stood near against the wall, and covered her face with her hands.Her brother went on with his drawing, rapidly and skillfully; after some moments he sat down beside her and showed her his sketch. “Now, don’t you think that’s pretty good for an obscure Bohemian?” he asked. “I have knocked off another fifty francs.” Eugenia glanced at the little picture as he laid it on her lap. “Yes, it is very clever,” she said. And in a moment she added, “Do you suppose our cousins do that?” “Do what?” “Get into those things, and look like that.” Felix meditated awhile. “I really can’t say. It will be interesting to discover.” “Oh, the rich people can’t!” said the Baroness. “Are you very sure they are rich?” asked Felix, lightly. His sister slowly turned in her place, looking at him. “Heavenly powers!” she murmured. “You have a way of bringing out things!” “It will certainly be much pleasanter if they are rich,” Felix declared.
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