来自：Only a girl's love
"Why can he not behave like other people?" said the earl, sadly. "Can you fancy any other man leaving his father's guests and riding about the country?"
"Leycester never was like any other," she said, not without a touch of pride. "He is as he is, and nothing can alter him."
The earl was silent for a moment, his long white hands folded behind his back, his dark eyes fixed on the floor.
"Has he told you of his last escapade--his last mad freak?" he said, in a low voice.
"Yes," she answered, calmly. "He has never concealed anything from me."
"It is nearly twenty thousand pounds. Even Wyndward must feel such strains as this."
The countess raised her head.
"I know," she said; "he has told me everything. It was a point of honor. I did not quite understand; horse-racing is a pastime with which I have little sympathy, though we have always owned race-horses. It was a point of honor. Some one had been taking advantage of his name to act dishonestly, and he withdrew the horse. He could take no other course," he says.
The earl sighed.
"No doubt. But it is mad folly, and there is no end to it--if he could see some limit! Why does he not marry?"
The countess glanced at the handsome face.
"He will not marry until he meets with some one he can love."
The earl looked round the room at the many beautiful graceful women who adorned it, and sighed impatiently.
"He is hard to please."
"He is," assented the countess, with the same touch of pride.
"It is time he married and settled," continued the earl. "For most men a year or two would not matter, but with him--I do not like to think that the title rests only on our two lives, as mine must be near its close."
"Algernon!"
"And on his, which is risked daily."
He stooped, silenced by the sudden look of pain in the beautiful eyes.
"Why do you not speak to him? He will do anything for you."
The countess smiled.
"Everything but that. No, I cannot speak to him; it would be useless. I do not wish to weaken my influence."
"Get Lilian to speak to him," he said.
The countess sighed.
"Lilian!" she murmured; "she would not do it. She thinks him something more than human, and that no woman in the world can be good enough to--to hold his stirrup or fill his wineglass."
The earl frowned.
"Between you," he said, "you have spoiled him."
The countess shook her head gently.
"No, we have not. He is now as a man what he was as a boy. Do you remember what Nelson said, when Hardy asked him why he did nothing while one of their ships was fighting two of the enemy's? 'I am doing all I can--watching.'"
Before the earl could reply, a cabinet minister came up and engaged him in conversation, and the countess rose and crossed the room to where an elderly lady sat with a portfolio of engravings before her. It was the Dowager Countess of Longford, a tiny little woman with a thin wrinkled face, and keen but kindly gray eyes that lit up her white face and made it remarkable.
She was dressed as simply as a quakeress, excepting for some old and priceless lace which softened the rigor of her plainly made gray satin dress. She looked up as the younger countess approached, and made room for her on the sofa.
Lady Wyndward sat down in silence, which was unbroken for a minute. Then the old countess said without looking at her--
"The boy grows handsomer every day, Ethel!"
Lady Wyndward sighed.
"What is the matter?" asked the other, with a keen smile. "What has he been doing now, burning a church or running off with a Lord Mayor's daughter?"
"He has not been doing anything very much," answered Lady Wyndward. "Except losing some money."
The old countess raised her eyebrows lightly.
"That does not matter."
"Not much. No, he has not been doing anything; I wish he would. That's what is the matter."
"I understand," retorted the other. "He is most dangerous when quiet; you are always afraid he is preparing for some piece of madness beyond the ordinary. Well, my dear, if you will give the world such a creature you must put up with the consequences--be prepared to pay the penalty. I should be quite content to do so."
"Ah, you don't know," said the countess, with a smile that had something pathetic in it.
"Yes, I do," retorted the old lady, curtly. "And I envy you still. I love the boy, Ethel. There is not a woman of us in the room, from the youngest to the oldest, who does not love him. You cannot expect one whom the gods have so favored to behave like an ordinary mortal."
"Why not? It is just what Algernon has said to me."
"I thought as much. I was watching you two. Of all things, beware of this: don't let Algernon interfere with him. It is a strange thing to say, but his father is the worst man in all the world to attempt to put the bridle on Leycester. It is we women who alone have the power to guide him."
"That is where my fear lies," said the countess. "It is the thought of what may happen in that quarter which fills me with daily dread."
"There is only one safeguard--marry him," remarked the old countess, but with a comical smile.
The countess sighed.
"Again, that is what Algernon says. You both say it as calmly as if you told me to give him a cup of tea."
The old countess was silent for a moment, then she said--
"Where is Lenore Beauchamp?"
Lady Wyndward was almost guilty of a start.
"You read my thoughts," she said.
The old lady nodded.
"She is the only woman who can really touch him. Ask her here; let them be together. She will be glad to come."
"I am not sure, Lenore is proud; she might guess why we wanted her."
The old lady drew up her head as haughtily as if she was Leycester's mother.
"And then? Is there any girl among them who would not jump at the chance? I don't mean because he is the heir to Wyndward; he is enough in himself without that."
"It is well you are not his mother; you would have made him what he is not now--vain."
The old lady sighed.
"I know it. But you are wrong about Lenore. If she ever cared for anyone, it is Leycester. She is proud, but love levels pride, and she may put forth her power. If she should, not even Leycester can withstand her. Ask her down, and leave the rest to her--and Providence."
The countess sat for a moment in silence, then she put her hand upon the thin, wrinkled hand, unadorned by a single gem.
"I have always you to come to. I think you understand him better than his own mother."
"No," said the old lady, "but I love him nearly as well."
"I will write at once," said the countess. And she rose and crossed to the ante-room.
There was a writing-table amongst the furniture; the servants saw her go to it, and noiselessly left the room.
She took up the pen and thought a moment, then wrote:
"MY DEAR LENORE,--Will you come down and spend a week with us? We have a few friends with us, but we are not complete without you. Do not say 'No,' but come. I do not name any day, so that you may be free to fix your own."
"Yours affectionately,
"ETHEL WYNDWARD."
"P.S.--Leycester is with us."
As she wrote the signature she heard a step behind her, which she knew was Leycester's.
He stopped short as he saw her, and coming up to her, put his hand on her white shoulder.
"Writing, mother?" he said.
The countess folded her letter.
"Yes. Where are you going?"
He pointed to the Louis Quatorze clock that ticked solemnly on a bracket.
"Ten o'clock, mother," he said, with a smile.
"Oh, yes; I see," she assented.
He stood for a moment looking down at her with all a young man's filial pride in a mother's beauty, and, bending down, touched her cheek with his lips, then passed out.
The countess looked after him with softened eyes.
"Who could help loving him?" she murmured.
Humming an air from the last opera bouffe, he ran lightly up the staircase and passed along the corridor, but as he reached the further end and knocked at a door, the light air died upon his lips.
A low voice murmured, "Come in;" and opening the door gently, he entered.
The room was a small one, and luxuriously furnished in a rather strange style. On the first entrance, a stranger would have been struck by the soft and delicate tints which pervaded throughout. There was not a brilliant color in the apartment; the carpet and hangings, the furniture, the pictures themselves were all of a reposeful tint, which could not tire the eye or weary the sense. The carpet was a thick Persian rug, which deadened the sound of footsteps, costly hangings of a cool and restful gray covered the walls, save at intervals; the fire itself was screened by a semi-transparent screen, and the only light in the room came from a lamp which was suspended by a silver chain from the ceiling, and was covered by a thick shade.
On a couch placed by the window reclined a young girl. As Leycester entered, she half rose and turned a pale, but beautiful face toward him with an expectant smile.
Beautiful is a word that is easily written, and written so often that its significance has got dulled: it fails to convey any idea of the ethereal loveliness of Lilian Wyndward. Had Mr. Etheridge painted a face with Leycester's eyes, and given it the delicately-cut lips and spiritual expression of one of Raphael's angels, it would have been a fair representation of Lilian Wyndward.
"It is you Leycester," she said. "I knew you would come," and she pointed to a small traveling clock that stood on a table near her.
He went up to her and kissed her, and she put her arms round his neck and laid her face against his, her eyes looking into his with rapt devotion.
"How hot you are, dear. Is it hot down there?"
"Awfully," he said, seating himself beside her, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. "There is not a breath of air moving, and if there were the governor would take care to shut it out. This room is deliriously cool, Lil; it is a treat to come into it."
"Is it?" she said, with a glad eagerness. "You really think it is. I like to hear you say that."
"Yes, it's the prettiest room in the house. What is it smells so sweet?"
"Lilac," she said, and she pointed to a bunch on the table.
He started slightly, and, stretching out his hand, took a spray out of the epergne.
"I thought it was lilac," he said, quietly. "I noticed it when I came in."
She took the spray from him and fastened it in his coat, against which her hands looked white as the driven snow.
"You shall take it to your own room, Ley," she said. "You shall take them all."
"Not for worlds, Lil," he said. "This will do."
"And what are they doing?" she asked.
"The usual thing," he replied; "playing, singing, rubber at whist, and boring each other to death generally."
She smiled.
"And what have you been doing?"
"Assisting in the latter amusement," he answered, lightly.
"They told me you had gone out," she said.
He nodded.
"Yes, I took the chestnut for a spin."
She laughed, a soft, hushed laugh.
"And left them the first night! That was like you, Ley!"
"What was the use of staying? It was wrong, I suppose. I am unfortunate! Yes, I went for a ride."
"It was a lovely evening. I watched the sunset," and she looked at the window. "If I had known you were going, I would have looked for you. I like to see you riding that big chestnut. You went across the meadows?"
"Yes," he said, "across the meadows."
He was silent for a minute, then he said, suddenly, "Lil, I have seen a vision to-night."
"A vision, Ley!" she repeated, looking up at him eagerly.
He nodded.
"A vision. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen, excepting you, Lil!"
She made no protest, but smiled.
"Ley! A girl! What was she like?"
"I can't tell you," he said. "I came upon her in a moment. The chestnut saw her first, and was human enough to be struck motionless. I was struck too!"
"And you can't tell me what she was like?"
"No; if I were to describe her with usual phrases you would smile. You women always do. You can't help being a woman, Lil!"
"Was she dark or fair?"
"Dark," he replied. "I did not know it at the time; it was impossible to think whether she was dark or fair while one looked at her, but I remembered afterward. Lil, you remember that picture I sent you from Paris--the picture of the girl with the dark eyes and long, silky hair--not black, but brown in the sunlight, with long lashes shading the eyes, and the lips curved in a half-serious smile as she looks down at the dog fawning at her feet?"
"I remember, Ley. Was she like that?"
"Yes; only alive. Fancy the girl in the picture alive. Fancy yourself the dog she was smiling at! I was the dog!"
"Ley!"
"And she spoke as well as smiled. You can imagine the voice that girl in the picture would have. Soft and musical, but clear as a bell and full of a subtle kind of witchery, half serious, half mockery. It was the voice of the girl I met in the lane this evening."
"Ley! Ley, you have come to make poetry to me to-night. I am very grateful."
"Poetry! It is truth. But you are right; such a face, such a voice would make a poet of the hardest man that lives."
"And you are not hard, Ley! But the girl! Who is she? What is her name?"
"Her name"--he hesitated a moment, and his voice unconsciously grew wonderfully musical--"is Stella--Stella."
"Stella!" she repeated. "It is a beautiful name."
"Is it not? Stella!"
"And she is--who?"
"The niece of old Etheridge, the artist, at the cottage."
Lilian's eyes opened wide.
"Really, Ley, I must see her!"
His face flushed, and he looked at her.
She caught the eager look, and her own paled suddenly.
"No," she said, gravely. "I will not see her. Ley--you will forget her by to-morrow."
He smiled.
"You will forget her by to-morrow. Ley, let me look at you!"
He turned his face to her, and she looked straight into his eyes, then she put her arm round his neck.
"Oh, Ley! has it come at last?"
"What do you mean?" he asked, not angrily, but with a touch of grimness, as if he were afraid of the answer.
"Ley," she said, "you must not see her again. Ley, you will go to-morrow, will you not?"
"Why?" he asked. "It is not like you to send me away, Lil."
"No, but I do. I who look forward to seeing you as the sweetest thing in my life--I who would rather have you near me than be--other than I am--I who lie and wait and listen for your footsteps--I send you, Ley. Think! You must go, Ley. Go at once, for your own sake and for hers."
He rose, and smiled down at her.
"For my sake, perhaps, but not for hers. You foolish girl, do you think all your sex is as partial as you are? You did not see her as I saw her to-night--did not hear her ready wit at my expense. For her sake! You make me smile, Lil."
"I cannot smile, Ley. You will not stay! What good can come of it? I know you so well. You will not be content until you have seen your Venus again, and then--ah, Ley, what can she do but love you, and love you but to lose you? Ley, all that has gone before has made me smile, because with them I knew you were heart-whole; I could look into your eyes and see the light of laughter in their depths; but not this time, Ley--not this time. You must go. Promise me!"
His face went pale under her gaze, and the defiant look, which so rarely shone out in her presence, came into his eyes, and about his lips.
"I cannot promise, Lil," he said.
CHAPTER V.
For love lay lurking in the clouds and mist, I heard him singing sweetly on the mountain side: "'Tis all in vain you fly, for everywhere am I-- In every quiet valley, on every mountain side!"
In the clear, bird-like tones of Stella's voice the musical words floated from the open window of her room above and through the open French windows of the old man's studio.
With a little start he turned his head away from the easel and looked toward the door.
Stella had only been in the house three days, but he had already learned something of her habits, and knew that when he heard the beautiful voice singing at the window in the early morning, he might expect to see the owner of the voice enter shortly.
His expectation was not doomed to disappointment. The voice sounded on the stairs, in the hall, and a moment afterward the door opened and Stella stood looking smilingly into the room.
If he had thought her beautiful and winsome on that first evening of her coming, when she was weary with anxiety and traveling, and dressed in dust-stained clothes, be sure he thought her more beautiful still, now that the light heart felt free to reveal itself, and the shabby dress had given place to the white and simple but still graceful morning gown.
Mrs. Penfold had worked hard during those three days, and with the aid of the Dulverfield milliner had succeeded in filling a small wardrobe for "her young lady," as she had learned to call her. The old artist, ignorant of the power of women in such direction, had watched the transformation with inward amazement and delight, and was never tired of hearing about dresses, and hats, jackets, and capes, and was rather disappointed than otherwise when he found that the grand transformation had been effected at a very small cost.
Bright and beautiful she stood, like a vision of youth and health in the doorway, her dark eyes laughingly contemplating the old man's gentle stare of wonder,--the look which always came into his eyes when she appeared.
"Did I disturb you by my piping, uncle?" she asked as she kissed him.
"Oh no, my dear," he answered, "I like to hear you,--I like to hear you."
She leant against his shoulder, and looked at his work.
"How beautiful it is!" she murmured. "How quickly it grows. I heard you come down this morning, and I meant to get up, but I was so tired--lazy, wasn't I?"
"No, no!" he said, eagerly. "I am sorry I disturbed you. I came down as quietly as I could. I knew you would be tired after your dissipation. You must tell me all about it."
"Yes, come to breakfast and I will tell you."
"Must I?" he said, glancing at his picture reluctantly.
He had been in the habit of eating his breakfast by installments, painting while he ate a mouthful and drank his cup of coffee, but Stella insisted upon his changing what she called a very wicked habit.
"Yes, of course! See how nice it looks," and she drew him gently to the table and forced him into a chair.
The old man submitted with a sigh that was not altogether one of regret, and still humming she sat opposite the urn and began to fill the cups.
"And did you enjoy yourself?" he asked, gazing at her dreamily.
"Oh, very much; they were so kind. Mrs. Hamilton is the dearest old lady; and the doctor--what makes him smile so much, uncle?"
"I don't know. I think doctors generally do."
"Oh, very well. Well, he was very kind too, and so were the Miss Hamiltons. It was very nice indeed, and they took so much notice of me--asked me all sorts of questions. Sometimes I scarcely knew what to answer. I think they thought because I had been brought up in Italy, I ought to have spoken with a strong accent, and looked utterly different to themselves. I think they were a little disappointed, uncle."
"Oh," he said, "and who else was there?"
"Oh, the clergyman, Mr. Fielding--a very solemn gentleman indeed. He said he didn't see much of you, and hoped he should see me in church."
Mr. Etheridge rubbed his head and looked rather guilty.
"I expect that was a back-handed knock for me, Stella," he said rather ruefully. "You see I don't go to church often. I always mean to go, but I generally forget the time, or I wander into the fields, or up into the woods, and forget all about the church till it's too late."
"But that's very wicked, abominably so," said Stella, gravely, but with a twinkle in her dark eyes. "I must look after your morals as well as your meals, I see, uncle."
"Yes," he assented, meekly--"do, do."
"Well, then there was a Mr. Adelstone, a young gentleman from London. He was quite the lion of the evening. I think he was a nephew of Mr. Fielding's."
The old man nodded.
"Yes; and did you like him?"
Stella thought a moment, holding the cream-jug critically over the coffee-cup.
"Not much, uncle. It was very wrong, and very bad taste, I am afraid, for they all seemed to admire him immensely, and so did he himself."
Mr. Etheridge looked at her rather alarmed.
"I must say, Stella, you get too critical. I don't think we are quite used to it."
She laughed.
"I don't fancy Mr. Adelstone was at all conscious of adverse criticism; he seemed quite satisfied with everybody, himself in particular. He certainly was beautifully dressed, and he had the dearest little hands and feet in the world; and his hair was parted to a hair, and as smooth as a black-and-tan terrier's; so that he had some grounds for satisfaction."
"What did he do to offend you, Stella?" asked the old man, rather shrewdly.
She laughed again, and a little touch of color came into her face, but she answered quite frankly:
"He paid me compliments, uncle."
"That doesn't offend your sex generally, Stella."
"It offends me," said Stella, quickly. "I--I detest them! especially when the man who pays them does it with a self-satisfied smile which shows that he is thinking more of his own eloquence and gallantry than of the person he is flattering."
The old man looked at her.
"Will you oblige me by telling me your age again?" he said.
She laughed.
"Am I too wise, uncle? Well, never mind--I'll promise to be good and stupid, if you like. But you are not eating any breakfast; and you must not keep looking at that odious easel all the time, as if you were longing to get back to it. Did you ever see a jealous woman?"
"No, never."
"Well, if you don't want to, you must not confine all your attention to your work."
"I don't think there is much fear of that when you are near," he said, meekly.
She laughed, and jumped up to kiss him with delight.
"Now that was a splendid compliment, sir! You are improving rapidly--Mr. Adelstone himself couldn't have done it more neatly."
Scarcely had the words left her lips than the door opened.
"Mr. Adelstone," said Mrs. Penfold.
A young man, tall and dark, and faultlessly dressed, stood in the doorway, his hat in one hand, a bouquet of flowers in the other. He was undeniably good-looking, and as he stood with a smile upon his face, looked at his best. A severe critic might have found fault with his eyes, and said that they were a little too small and a little too near together, might also have added that they were rather shifty, and that there was something approaching the sinister in the curves of the thin lips; but he was undeniably good-looking, and notwithstanding his well cut clothes and spotless boots with their gray gaiters, his white hands with the choice selection of rings, there was an indication of power about him; no one could have suspected him of being a fool, or lacking the power of observation; for instance, as he stood now, smiling and waiting for a welcome, his dark eyes took in every detail of the room without appearing to leave Stella's face.
Mr. Etheridge looked up with the usual confused air with which he always received his rare visitors, but Stella held out her hand with a smile calm and self-possessed. There is a great deal of the woman even about a girl of nineteen.
"Good-morning, Mr. Adelstone," she said. "You have come just in time for a cup of coffee."
"I ought to apologize for intruding at such an unseasonable hour," he said, as he bent over her hand, "but your good housekeeper would not hear of my going without paying my respects. I am afraid I'm intruding."
"Not at all, not at all," murmured the artist. "Here's a chair," and he rose and cleared a chair of its litter by the simple process of sweeping it on to the floor.
Mr. Adelstone sat down.
"I hope you are not tired after your mild dissipation last night?" he asked of Stella.
She laughed.
"Not at all. I was telling uncle how nice it was. It was my first party in England, you know."
"Oh, you musn't call it a party," he said. "But I am very glad you enjoyed it."
"What beautiful flowers," said Stella, glancing at the bouquet.
He handed them to her.
"Will you be so kind as to accept them?" he said. "I heard you admire them in the conservatory last night and I brought them for you from the rectory green-house."
"For me?" exclaimed Stella, open-eyed. "Oh, I didn't know! I am so sorry you should have troubled. It was very kind. You must have robbed the poor plants terribly."
"They would be quite consoled if they could know for whom their blossoms were intended," he said, with a low bow.
Stella looked at him with a smile, and glanced half archly at her uncle.
"That was very nice," she said. "Poor flowers! it is a pity they can't know! Can't you tell them? There is a language of flowers, you know!"
Mr. Adelstone smiled. He was not accustomed to have his compliments met with such ready wit, and was nonplussed for a moment, while his eyes dropped from her face with a little shifty look.
Mr. Etheridge broke the rather embarrassing pause.
"Put them in the vase for her, Mr. Adelstone, will you, please, and come and have some breakfast. You can't have had any."
He waited until Stella echoed the invitation, then drew up to the table.
Stella rang for cup and saucer and plates, and poured him out some coffee; and he plunged into small talk with the greatest ease, his keen eyes watching every graceful turn of Stella's arm, and glancing now and again at the beautiful face.
It was very good small talk, and amusing. Mr. Adelstone was one of those men who had seen everything. He talked of the London season that was just coming on, to Stella, who sat and listened, half amused, half puzzled, for London was an unknown land to her, and the string of names, noble and fashionable, which fell from his ready tongue, was entirely strange to her.
Then he talked of the coming Academy to Mr. Etheridge, and seemed to know all about the pictures that were going to be exhibited, and which ones would make a stir, and which would fail. Then he addressed himself to Stella again.
"You must pay London a visit, Miss Etheridge; there is no place like it the whole world through--not even Paris or Rome."
Stella smiled.
"It is not very likely that I shall see London for a long time. My uncle does not often go, although it is so near, do you?"
"No, no," he assented, "not often."
"Perhaps you are to be congratulated," said Mr. Adelstone. "With all its charms, I am glad to get away from it."
"You live there?" said Stella.
"Yes," he said, quietly, welcoming the faint look of interest in her eyes. "Yes; I live in chambers, as it is called, in one of the old law inns. I am a lawyer!"
Stella nodded.
"I know. You wear a long black gown and a wig."
He smiled.
"And address a jury; and do you say 'm'lud' instead of 'my lord,' as people in novels always make barristers say?"
"I don't know; perhaps I do," he answered, with a smile; "but I don't address a jury, or have an opportunity of calling a judge 'my lud,' or 'my lord,' often. Most of my work is done at my chambers. I am very glad to get down into the country for a holiday."
"Are you going to stay long?" asked Mr. Etheridge, with polite interest.
Mr. Adelstone paused a moment, and glanced at Stella before answering.
"I don't know," he said. "I meant going back to-day, but--I think I have changed my mind."
Stella was only half listening, but the words caused her to start. They were the same as those which Lord Leycester had uttered three nights ago.
Mr. Adelstone's keen eyes saw the start, and he made a mental note of it.
"Ah! it is beautiful weather," said Mr. Etheridge. "It would be a pity to leave Wyndward for London now."
"Yes: I shall be more than ever sorry to go now," said Mr. Adelstone, and his glance rested for a moment on Stella's face, but it was quite lost, for Stella's eyes were fixed on the scene beyond the window dreamily.
With almost a start she turned to him.
"Let me give you some more coffee!"
"No, thanks," he said; then, as Stella rose and rang the bell, he walked to the easel. "That will be a beautiful picture, Mr. Etheridge," he said, viewing it with a critical air.
"I don't know," said the artist, simply.
"You will exhibit it?"
"I never exhibit anything," was the quiet reply.
"No! I am surprised!" exclaimed the young man, but there was something in the quiet manner of the old man that stopped any further questions.
"No," said Mr. Etheridge; "why should I? I have"--and he smiled--"no ambition. Besides I am an old man, I have had my chance; let the young ones take theirs, I leave them room. You are fond of art?"
"Very," said Mr. Adelstone. "May I look round?"
The old man waved his hand, and took up his brush.
Jasper Adelstone wandered round the room, taking up the canvases and examining them; Stella stood at the window humming softly.
Suddenly she heard him utter an involuntary exclamation, and turning round saw that he had the portrait of Lord Leycester in his hand.
His face was turned toward her, and as she turned quickly, he was in time to catch a sinister frown of dislike, which rested for a moment on his face, but vanished as he raised his eyes and met hers.
"Lord Leycester," he said, with a smile and an uprising of the eyebrows. "A remarkable instance of an artist's power."
"What do you mean?" asked Stella, quietly, but with lowered eyes.
"I mean that it is a fair example of ideality. Mr. Etheridge has painted a likeness of Lord Leycester, and added an ideal poetry of his own."
"You mean that it is not like him?" she said.
Mr. Etheridge painted on, deaf to both of them.
"No," he said, looking at the picture with a cold smile. "It is like him, but it--honors him. It endows him with a poetry which he does not possess."
"You know him?" said Stella.
"Who does not?" he answered, and his thin lips curled with a smiling sneer.
A faint color came into Stella's face, and she raised her eyes for a moment.
"What do you mean?"