"That's the face!" cried the girl—"the face in the picture!"
"Oh, that's what you mean, is it?" said the Baronet. "Yes, yes; we know that." And turning to the artist, he explained the housemaid's words by saying: "She recognises you to be the Pompey of the picture."
"And there's the other face," cried the girl, pointing at me.
This observation startled me. Surely the artist had not adopted my features as the model for the face of his Cæsar?
"Don't be stupid, girl!" said Sir Hugh impatiently. "The other face is no more like Mr. Willard's than—yes, it is, though, now I come to look deeply at you," he continued, regarding me a moment. "There is a faint resemblance—not much. The girl has a quick eye. How she stares at you, Angelo! Upon my word," he said with a grim smile, "I believe she thinks you have stepped out of the canvas. Don't stare so at Mr. Vasari, girl. You must be out of your mind!"
"Then what's he laughing for, and staring at me with his wicked eyes—frightening me so?"
"Jane," said the housekeeper, administering as mild a shaking as the dignity of her position and the presence of her guests would allow, "how dare you make an exhibition of yourself in this manner? I'll send you home to your mother this very day! How dare you? You shall not stay here another hour!"
"It's his fault!" cried the girl, rendered desperate by fright. "He keeps staring at me and smiling wickedly. I won't be looked at like that!"
Her manner almost led one to believe that Angelo had been casting the "evil eye" upon her, and that the operation hurt. All looks were turned towards him; but whatever peculiarity his eyes may have displayed had quite vanished now: they manifested only their usual quiet dreamy expression.
"The girl is as mad," he said with a scornful air, "as your curiosity of a butler, who takes the caterwauling of a tom-cat for the cry of a banshee."