There was no mistaking the ring of reality in his tone, and yet there was nothing emotional about it. He seemed to be asserting the fact as much for his own benefit as for hers; and she also was lost in herself, in her own eagerness, as she looked again at the portrait.
"But it's real bonnie, Mr. Paul! Will it be as bonnie as the Beggar-Maid?"
"Still harping upon kings!" he said, coming back to her lightly. "Take my advice, Jeanie, and be content with commoners."
"But if I'm no content?"
"Uneasy lies the head! Don't you remember my reading that to you the other day?"
She flashed round on him in an instant, superb in her quick response, her quick resentment.
"I mind mony a thing ye've read, mony a thing ye've said, mony a thing ye've done. I've a deal to mind; too much, may be."
It came as a shock to Paul Macleod. For his heart had, as yet, an uncomfortable knack of acknowledging the truth. His head, however, came to the rescue as usual, by swift denial that those long days spent in painting Jeanie's portrait under the rowan tree were hardly wise.
"One can't have too much of a good thing, and it has been pleasant, hasn't it?"
"Mither says it's bin a sair waste o' time," replied the girl, evasively.