His eye again spoke for him, and this time it said, "There is no further use in attempting to deceive me."
The artist took the hint. His strong, pleasant face became a mirror reflecting the very truth; his blue eyes were filled with a light brighter even than the inspiration of art; his mellow voice burst out abruptly—
"I love Jean!"
The effect was rather like discharging a cannon and bringing down a scrap of plaster.
"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Walkingshaw. "You mean my daughter?"
"I should think I do!"
"I merely asked for information, Mr. Vernon."
"Then I can guarantee your information!" Lucas smiled frankly, but he might as well have smiled at the hat-rack in the hall. "I'm quite aware you don't think me good enough for her—and I agree with you. But if it comes to that, who is? You may say my name's neither Turner nor Rubens; you may think it's like my dashed impudence asking you to let me make a short cut to heaven across your hearth—"
It was at this point that Mr. Walkingshaw discharged his ordnance.