"How did you know it was Guido's?" he asked, and he went and stood before the picture, looking from it to her.
Margaret stared. How could it be possible for any intelligent person not to know!
"It is easy to tell a Guido, my lord," she said, with a slight smile. "One has only to see one of them once, and I have seen them in the National Gallery fifty—a hundred times."
He looked at her, not curiously—the Earl of Ferrers, famed for his exquisite courtesy, could not have done that—but with a newly-born interest.
"Yes? Do you recognize other masters here? This, for instance," and he raised his hand; it stood out like snow in front of the violet velvet, and a large amethyst on the forefinger gleamed redly in the downward light.
"That is a Carlo Dolci, my lord; but not a very good one."
"Right in both assertions," he said, with a smile. "And this?"
"A Rubens, and a very fine one," she said, forgetting his presence and grandeur, and approaching the picture. "I have never seen more beautiful coloring in a Rubens—but I have not seen the Continental galleries. It would look better still if it were not hung so near that De la Roche; the two clash. Now, if the other Rubens on the opposite side were placed——" but she remembered herself, and stopped suddenly, confused and shamefaced.
"Pray go on," he said gently. "You would hang them side by side. Yes. You are right! Tell me who painted this!" and he inclined his head toward a heavy battle piece.