A slight expression of surprise came over his face.
"You have made an excellent copy," he said. "I think you are capable of higher work—original work."
Margaret's face flushed with pleasure, but she said nothing. It was not for so humble an individual as herself to bandy compliments with so great a personage as the Earl of Ferrers.
"You have worked hard," he said, looking at her; "not too hard, I hope."
Now Margaret had grown rather pale during these last two days. It had been one of the results of Lord Blair's passionate words. She did not sleep much at night, and what with this and dwelling upon the scene that had passed between them, the roses which Mrs. Hale wished to see had vanished from her face.
"You are looking tired and pale," said the earl, in a gravely kind fashion.
"I am quite well, my lord," she said, standing with lowered lids under the piercing gaze of the dark-gray eyes.
"Yes, it is a very good copy," he said, returning to the picture. "I should have paid you a visit before; I have not lost my interest in art, but I have been engaged and indisposed. I have had my nephew with me," he continued, more to himself than to her—"Lord Leyton." He sighed. "You may not have seen him?"
"I have seen him, my lord," said Margaret, and for the life of her she could not help the tell-tale flush rising to her face.