"I do not know, my lord," said Margaret.
He smiled.
"It is a pleasant discovery to find that your knowledge is not illimitable," he said. "It is a Wouvermans."
Margaret looked at it, and her brows came together, after a fashion peculiar to her when she was thinking deeply, displeased, or silent under pressure.
"Well?" he said, as if he had read her thoughts; "what would you say?"
"It is not a Wouvermans, my lord," she said.
The earl smiled, and stood with folded hands regarding her.
"No, my lord. That is, I think not. It is not even a copy, but an imitation—oh, forgive me!" she broke off, blushing.
"No, no!" he said, gently; "there is nothing to forgive. Tell me why you think so? But I warn you—" and he smiled with mock gravity—"this picture cost several thousand pounds!"
"I can't help it," said Margaret, desperate on behalf of truth. "It is not a Wouvermans! He never painted a horse like that—never! I have copied dozens of his pictures. I should know a horse of his if I met it in the streets, my lord," and her eyebrows came together again in almost piteous assertion.