“Matter? Oh, nothing—nothing. I was only going to say”—but in his flurry nothing occurred to him to say, for a moment; then by a lucky inspiration he thought of something entirely sufficient for the occasion, and brought it out with eloquent force: “Oh, how beautiful you are! You take my breath away when you look like that.”
It was well conceived, well timed, and cordially delivered—and it got its reward.
“Let me see. Where was I? Yes, my father’s earldom is pure moonshine. Look at those dreadful things on the wall. You have of course supposed them to be portraits of his ancestors, earls of Rossmore. Well, they are not. They are chromos of distinguished Americans—all moderns; but he has carried them back a thousand years by re-labeling them. Andrew Jackson there, is doing what he can to be the late American earl; and the newest treasure in the collection is supposed to be the young English heir—I mean the idiot with the crape; but in truth it’s a shoemaker, and not Lord Berkeley at all.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why of course I am. He wouldn’t look like that.”
“Why?”
“Because his conduct in his last moments, when the fire was sweeping around him shows that he was a man. It shows that he was a fine, high-souled young creature.”
Tracy was strongly moved by these compliments, and it seemed to him that the girl’s lovely lips took on a new loveliness when they were delivering them. He said, softly:
“It is a pity he could not know what a gracious impression his behavior was going to leave with the dearest and sweetest stranger in the land of—”
“Oh, I almost loved him! Why, I think of him every day. He is always floating about in my mind.”