Indeed, Chris had blushed a little, and thrust the portrait quickly back on the shelf.
“I was only looking at a picture,” she explained quickly. And the next moment, seized by an idea, she snatched up the miniature and held it towards Mr. Bradfield.
“It looks like a portrait,” said she. “Do you know who it is?”
As she held up the picture, she saw a change in Mr. Bradfield’s face. It was too dark in this back room to see whether he lost colour; but an expression of what was certainly annoyance, mingled with something that looked like terror, passed over his face. It was gone in a moment, and he answered her calmly enough.
“No,” said he, “I don’t know who he is. I daresay I bought it in a collection of miniatures.”
Chris turned it over in her hand.
“Oh! here’s the name, I suppose,” she said; “‘Gilbert Wryde, 1847.’”
Again, as she glanced up quickly, and rather curiously, she saw the same sort of look for a couple of seconds on Mr. Bradfield’s face. But he answered in a tone just as unmoved as before.
“Perhaps it’s only the name of the artist who painted it. I should think the date was right, by the costume. Are you fond of miniatures? I have a splendid collection in one of the rooms upstairs. I will show you them to-morrow, if you like.”