“It isn’t her,” he said, after another pause, pointing a stumpy forefinger at Laura Pocklington.
There was a little shiver of dismay. George rigidly repressed every indication of satisfaction. Neaera stood calm and smiling, bending a look of amused kindliness on Stubbs; but the palm of the white hand on the mantelpiece grew pink as the white fingers pressed against it.
“Would you like to see me a little nearer?” she asked, and, stepping forward to where Stubbs sat, she stood right in front of him.
George felt inclined to cry “Brava!” as if he were at the play.
Stubbs was puzzled. There was a likeness, but there was so much unlikeness too. It really wasn’t fair to dress people up differently. How was a man to know them?
“Might I see the photograph again, sir?” he asked George.
“Certainly not,” exclaimed Gerald, angrily.
George ignored him.
“I had rather,” he said, “you told us what you think without it.”
George had sent Lord Tottlebury the photograph, and everybody had looked at it and declared it was not the least like Neaera.