“Lack-a-day! at this rate we shall lose every youth of our acquaintance,” said Anna, who found in excited speech the safest outlet for her emotions. “Yet, lest it be said that I would restrain young gentlemen of spirit who would fain wander abroad, I have here a memento of myself which Sir Thomas Roe shall carry as a talisman against all barbarians.”
She took from beneath a ruff of lace on her breast a small oval object which was fastened by a tiny gold chain around her neck. Even in the dim light they could see it was a miniature.
“It is the work of that excellent painter, Master Isaac Olliver,” she added hastily, “and, from what I know of his skill, I vow his brush was worthy of a better subject.”
“Anna, it is your own portrait!” cried Roe.
“Indeed, would any woman give you the picture of another?”
“Not unless she wished me well and gave me yours.”
“Have you also sat to this Master Olliver?” whispered Mowbray to Eleanor.
“’Tis clear you come from the country, sir. His repute is such that to procure one of his miniatures would cost me my dress for a year or more.”
“Then he has not seen you, or, being an artist, he would beseech you to inspire his pencil.”