"Is romance at an end now?" she asked.
Harrington looked at her kindly.
"Almost! It's gasping its last gasp in company with poetry. Realism is our only wear—Realism and Prose—very prosy Prose. YOU are a romantic child!—I can see that!—but don't over-do it! And if you ever made an ideal out of your sixteenth-century man, don't make another out of the twentieth-century one! He couldn't stand it!—he'd crumble at a touch!"
She answered nothing, but avoided his glance. He prepared to take his leave—and on rising from his chair suddenly caught sight of the portrait on the harpsichord.
"I know that face!" he said, quickly,—"Who is he?"
"He WAS also a painter—as great as the one we have just been speaking of," answered Miss Leigh—"His name was Pierce Armitage."
"That's it!" exclaimed Harrington, with some excitement. "Of course!
Pierce Armitage! I knew him! One of the handsomest fellows I ever saw!
THERE was an artist, if you like!—he might have been anything! What
became of him?—do you know?"
"He died abroad, so it is said"—and Miss Leigh's gentle voice trembled a little—"but nothing is quite certainly known—"
Harrington turned swiftly to stare eagerly at Innocent.
"YOUR name is Armitage!" he said—"and do you know you are rather like him! Your face reminds me—-Are you any relative?"