After the meal was over, Cousin Geoffrey rose, and held out his hand.
“Good-bye, Rosamund,” he said. “I am glad you came to see me. You are your mother’s daughter, although you have not got her face. You may tell her so if you like, and and— But no; I won’t send any other message. Good-bye, Rosamund.”
“Cousin Geoffrey, you have not told me—Cousin Geoffrey—you won’t, oh, you won’t disappoint me?”
“Child, if I grant your request it will be against my will. As a rule, I never do anything against my will. I disapprove of your scheme. You are just a nice girl, but you are no artist, Rosamund.”
“Cousin Geoffrey, let me prove to you that I am.”
“I don’t want you to prove it to me. There, if I think twice of this matter you shall hear from me in a week.”
“And if I don’t hear?”
“Take my silence for what it means. I respect art—only true votaries must approach her shrine.”