Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. During the narration Jack's features lighted up, and an expression, which would have been in vain looked for in repose, was instantly caught and depicted by the skilful artist. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. Just let him down easy, Lucy.
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