"Ah! what a pity it is I don't resemble her!" says Lilian, with a suspiciously deep sigh, accepting the reproach, and shaking her head mournfully. "Was she like that picture at home in the drawing-room? I hope not. It is very lovely, but it lacks expression, and has no tenderness about it."
"Then the artist must have done her great injustice. She was all tenderness both in face and disposition as I remember her, and children are very correct in their impressions. She was extremely beautiful. You are very like her."
"Am I, Sir Guy? Oh, thank you. I didn't hope for so much praise. Then in one thing at least I do resemble my mother. Am I more beautiful or less so?"
"That is quite a matter of opinion."
"And what is yours?" saucily.
"What can it matter to you?" he says, quickly, almost angrily. "Besides, I dare say you know it."
"I don't, indeed. Never mind, I shall find out for myself. I am so glad"—amiably—"you knew my mother, and the dear Park! It sounds horrible, does it not, but the Park is even more dear to me than—than her memory."
"You can scarcely call it a 'memory'; she died when you were so young,—hardly old enough to have an idea. I recollect you so well, a little toddling thing of two."
"The plot thickens. You knew me also? And pray, Sir Guardian, what was I like?"