“Perhaps you are right,” she said quietly. “It may be natural; but in these days, Doctor Scales, education teaches us to master our weakness.”
“Which most of us do,” he said, with a bow, “But really, if your Ladyship’s portrait, painted by a masterly hand, had been hung.”—He stopped short, as if thinking how to say his next words.
“Well, doctor?” she said, giving him a look that he caught, weighed, and valued on the instant at its true worth.
“It would have had a crowd around it to admire.”
“The artist’s work, doctor?”
“No, madam; the beauty of the features the artist had set himself to limn.”
“Is this a compliment, doctor, or a new form of bantering Lady Scarlett’s guest?” said the visitor, rather bitterly.
“Neither the one nor the other, but the simple truth.”
Lady Martlett fought hard to conceal the exultation; nay, more, the thrill of pleasure that ran through her nerves as she heard these words; but though outwardly she seemed quite calm, her cheeks were more highly coloured than usual, and her voice sounded deeper and more rich.
Jack Scales told himself she was plotting to humble him to the very dust, so he stood upon his guard.