Indeed, Miss Lisle was a dangerous young woman, and the hearts of young and old, gentle and simple, went down before a glance of her gray-blue eyes, a smile from the mobile lips, a word from her voice which thrilled with a melody few could resist.
Francis Lisle went on daubing, his head on one side, a rapt, contented look on his pale, aristocratic face.
"Yes, this is going to be one of my best efforts," he said, with placid complacency. "Go and sing something, Leslie. I can always work better while you are singing. Music and painting are twin sisters. I adore them both."
Leslie went back to the piano with that peculiarly graceful motion of hers, and touched a note or two.
"Were there no letters this morning, dear?" she asked.
"Letters?" Lisle put his hand to his forehead as if rudely called back to earth from the empyrean. "Letters? No. Yes, I forgot. There was one. It was from Ralph Duncombe."
Leslie turned her head slightly, and the rather thick brows which helped the eyes in all their unconscious mischief straightened.
"From Ralph? What does he say?"
"I don't know," replied Lisle, placidly. "I can never read his letters; he writes so terribly plain a hand; its hardness jars upon me. I have it—somewhere?"