She was more at her ease now, and laughed at his quick, brusque manner of speech.
"Miss Leigh is my godmother," she said—"I call her my fairy godmother because she is always so good and kind. There she is, standing by that big easel."
He looked in the direction indicated.
"Oh yes!—I see! A charming old lady! I love old ladies when they don't pretend to be young. That white hair of hers is very picturesque! So she is your godmother!—and she takes care of you! Well! She might do worse!"
He ruffled his thick crop of hair and looked at her more or less quizzically.
"You have an air of suppressed enquiry," he said—"There is something on your mind! You want to ask me a question—what is it?"
A soft colour flew over her cheeks—she was confused to find him reading her thoughts.
"It is really nothing!" she answered, quickly—"I was only wondering a little about your name—because it is one I have known all my life."
His eyebrows went up in surprise.
"Indeed? This is very interesting! I thought I was the only wearer of such a very medieval appellation! Is there another so endowed?"