"You appear," observed Osmond, "to have taken a dislike to the lady in question."
"Well, I cannot say she fascinates me. She is so big and bold, and she looks artificial. She reminds me of that dreadful middle-aged Miss Walters who married the small, shy young curate of St. Mary's."
"She is a very handsome woman," said Osmond obstinately.
"Well, never mind her looks. What has she been saying to you?"
"Oh, she merely remarked," was the reply, as Osmond picked up his palette and charged a clean brush with color. "She merely made a remark about this Mr. Percivale whom everyone is so ready to take for granted."
"What was the remark?"
"She said there were several ugly stories afloat about him, and that—" he paused to put a deliberate touch upon his almost completely finished picture—"that his antecedents were most questionable."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Love is a virtue for heroes—as white as the snow on high hills,
And immortal, as every great soul is, that straggles, endures, and fulfils.