“Have I not told you that a thousand times, O thou of little faith? But why have you come to such a conclusion?”
“Because no woman with such a figure, such a voice and such hands could be otherwise.”
“I knew you would own it some day. Do you wonder now that I love her?”
“Oh! as to loving her,” said Sir Norman, coolly, “that's quite another thing. I could no more love her or her hands, voice, and shape, than I could a figure in wood or wax; but I admire her vastly, and think her extremely clever. I will never forget that face in the caldron. It was the most exquisitely beautiful I ever saw.”
“In love with the shadow of a face! Why, you are a thousandfold more absurd than I.”
“No,” said Sir Norman, thoughtfully, “I don't know as I'm in love with it; but if ever I see a living face like it, I certainly shall be. How did La Masque do it, I wonder?”
“You had better ask her,” said Ormiston, bitterly. “She seems to have taken an unusual interest in you at first sight. She would strew your path with roses, forsooth! Nothing earthly, I believe, would make her say anything half so tender to me.”
Sir Norman laughed, and stroked his moustache complacently.
“All a matter of taste, my dear fellow: and these women are noted for their perfection in that line. I begin to admire La Masque more and more, and I think you had better give up the chase, and let me take your place. I don't believe you have the ghost of a chance, Ormiston.”
“I don't believe it myself,” said Ormiston, with a desperate face “but until the plague carries me off I cannot give her up; and the sooner that happens, the better. Ha! what is this?”