“I wish you would paint my portrait, Mr. Lane,” said the young lady, who did not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation.
“That would be easy enough,” he answered.
“Would it? Ah, but I fear you would find me too plain a subject. I am not beautiful, you know, but if I wore my best clothes you might think I would do.”
For some time Miss Paddington continued to spin out threads of small talk, while Rayel sat listening. The dinner was nearly over when the climax came which I had already begun to fear.
“It is strange,” said Rayel thoughtfully. “You speak what is not true, Miss Paddington. You said that the Prince of Wales gave you the beautiful opal, but tell me—was it not your father who gave it you?”
He waited a moment for her answer.
“Oh, I understand now,” he continued. “People do not always speak the truth—do they?”
The young lady turned red with embarrassment, while an unnatural smile played upon her lips.
“But—but what is the use of talking then?” he asked. No one seemed disposed to answer.
“It is strange,” he continued, with childlike naivete, turning to the young lady sitting at his left, “you have been laughing as if you were very happy, but you have felt more like weeping. This must be a very sad world!” He ceased speaking as if some suspicion of the pain his words were causing had suddenly come to him.