“That tulip is a poppy, Mr. Linton.”
“What a natural mistake, after all!” said he. “How many human tulips who not only look like, but are downright poppies! Is not this house intolerably stupid?”
“I 'm ashamed to own I think it pleasant,” said she, smiling.
“You were more fastidious once, if my memory serves me aright,” said he, meaningly.
“Perhaps so,” said she, carelessly. “I begin to fancy that odd people are more amusing than clever ones; and certainly they entertain without an effort, and that is an immense gain.”
“Do you think so? I should have supposed the very effort would have claimed some merit, showing that the desire to please had prompted it.”
“My Lord will see Mr. Linton at present,” said the servant.
Linton nodded, and the man withdrew.
“How long ago is it since you made this sketch?” said he, opening the book, as if accidentally, at the page with the pine-tree.
She turned, and although her bent-down head concealed her features, Linton saw the crimson flush spread over the neck as she answered, “About three years ago.”