“Wherefore, madam?” demanded Delia.
“Because—because it is my will, I mean, they are all employed here—”
She put her hands in a troubled manner to her heart and her restless fingers pulled the mauve ribbon; a closed gold miniature case fell lightly onto the table.
Lady Dalrymple took it up in silence and looked at it with the air of some one who holds something very precious, and who, wishful to display it, yet dreads a scornful reception. She fingered the case a moment in silence and took a timid glance at Delia, who gazed blankly with a troubled face.
Lady Dalrymple encouraged by her look, snapped open the case and held it out hesitating, pleading, making a great effort to be calm.
“My children,” she said.
Delia gave one glance, then motioned it away with a gesture of horror.
“How like,” she said fearfully.
“How like whom?” asked Lady Dalrymple startled. “They are beautiful faces—are they not? Why do you turn away? I crave people to gaze on them—”
“They are like—Sir John,” faltered Delia with quivering lips. “It startled me—”