He led the way into the cool, neat, quaint kitchen-room, hated of Doris' soul, but to the artist a study most excellent.
Then did the artist look at the Brace family in deepest wonder. Mark had called the wood-nymph "my darling," and asserted a father's right; and yet not one line or trace of Mark was in this dainty maid.
Leslie turned to study Patty, who had made her courtesy and taken the basket of berries—dark, strong, plump, tidy, intelligent, kindly, plain. Not a particle of Patty in this aristocratic young beauty, who called her "mother" in a slighting tone.
Then, in despair, he fixed his eyes on Mattie Brace—brown, earnest, honest, dark, sad eyes, good, calm—just as little like the pearl-and-gold beauty as the others.
Meanwhile Mark and Patty eyed each other.
"I want to speak to you a minute, Mark," said Patty; and the pair retired to the dairy.
Doris flushed angrily, and drummed on the window-sill.
"Behold a mystery!" said Gregory Leslie to himself.
"Mark," said Patty, in the safe retirement of the milk-pans, "this needs considering. Doris is not our own. To have her picture painted and exhibited in London to all the great folk, may be the last thing her mother would desire: and her mother is yet living, as the money comes always the same way."
"I declare, Patty, I never thought of that."