"'There's not a day: the longest—not the 21st of June—
Sees so much mischief in a wicked way
On which three single hours of moonshine smile——'"
"And yet she looks so modest all the while!" Poppy finished.
Mrs. Portal reproved her.
"I consider you too young and good looking to read Byron."
"Do you think he wrote for the old and ugly?" laughed Poppy. "And how came you to read him?"
"What! The retort flattering! You're no Durbanite. You don't grow in the cabbage garden. Ohé! I can say what I will to you. Ding-Dong!"
Her little, high-bred face was neither too sunny nor too sad, but had a dash of both sunshine and sorrow about the eyes and lips. She screwed it up in a way she had, and began to sing her little French song again:
"Le monde est méchant, ma petite:
Il dit que tes yeux vifs sont morts,
Et se meuvent dans leur orbite
A temps égaux et par ressorts."
The odour of happiness which Bramham had spoken of began to make itself felt. Little fronds and scents of it caught hold of Poppy and enfolded her. Looking at the face beside her she saw in it no signs of any mean content with life. There were fine cobwebby lines around the eyes and mouth, and a deep one between the brows, and Poppy wished that they were upon her face, too, for they were beautiful. Yet they could only have come through suffering, for Mrs. Portal was not old.
"She has had sorrows, too—but not shameful ones. She wears them like jewels," thought the girl.