Charlotte wondered whether Gertrude was right in wishing this; and she looked at Mr. Brand as the most legitimate way of ascertaining. Whatever Gertrude did or said, Charlotte always looked at Mr. Brand. It was a standing pretext for looking at Mr. Brand—always, as Charlotte thought, in the interest of Gertrude’s welfare. It is true that she felt a tremulous interest in Gertrude being right; for Charlotte, in her small, still way, was an heroic sister.
“We should be glad to have your portrait, Miss Gertrude,” said Mr. Brand.
“I should be delighted to paint so charming a model,” Felix declared.
“Do you think you are so lovely, my dear?” asked Lizzie Acton, with her little inoffensive pertness, biting off a knot in her knitting.
“It is not because I think I am beautiful,” said Gertrude, looking all round. “I don’t think I am beautiful, at all.” She spoke with a sort of conscious deliberateness; and it seemed very strange to Charlotte to hear her discussing this question so publicly. “It is because I think it would be amusing to sit and be painted. I have always thought that.”
“I am sorry you have not had better things to think about, my daughter,” said Mr. Wentworth.
“You are very beautiful, cousin Gertrude,” Felix declared.
“That’s a compliment,” said Gertrude. “I put all the compliments I receive into a little money-jug that has a slit in the side. I shake them up and down, and they rattle. There are not many yet—only two or three.”
“No, it’s not a compliment,” Felix rejoined. “See; I am careful not to give it the form of a compliment. I didn’t think you were beautiful at first. But you have come to seem so little by little.”
“Take care, now, your jug doesn’t burst!” exclaimed Lizzie.