"
That shot told.
"You don't know what anxiety you've caused, leaving us for--for strangers,
that way," she retorted, bridling; "but since you _would_ go, I'm
glad everything's turned out so--been having your portrait painted? Why,
it's a--it _is_ a Van Nostrand!"--She had spied the painting.--"It's
like you, rather; but--doesn't he charge a fortune?"
Then she rattled on, about the rooms, about Bermuda lilies and donkey
carts, trying now and again to pry into my plans and urging me, not too
warmly, to return to her, until she had reached the limits of a call of
courtesy. I think it was with real relief that she rose as she received my
final refusal. Uncle, who had sat silent in kind, or blind, perplexity,
was unfeignedly glad to go.
"Run in often, won't you?" she said, at parting. "I hear--but perhaps I
shouldn't speak of that. Is--is Lord Strathay like his pictures?"
Fussy! She'd gladly wash her hands of me, yet thinks she has a duty. But I
was glad, for once, to see her. It's not for nothing that I have run
society's gauntlet; I can aim confetti with the best of them; innocent-
looking but they hurt.
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