"Do you suppose you know so much about women?" she asked him, rather hotly. "I notice it is always the assumption of the people who make most mistakes."
"Oh! I know enough to steer by!" he said, smiling, with a little inclination of his curly head, as though to propitiate her. "How like you are to that portrait!"
Marcella started, and saw that he was pointing to the woman's portrait beside the window—looking from it to his hostess with a close considering eye.
"That was an ancestress of mine," she said coldly, "an Italian lady. She was rich and musical. Her money built these rooms along the garden, and these are her music books."
She showed him that the shelves against which she was leaning were full of old music.
"Italian!" he said, lifting his eyebrows. "Ah, that explains. Do you know—that you have all the qualities of a leader!"—and he moved away a yard from her, studying her—"mixed blood—one must always have that to fire and fuse the English paste—and then—but no! that won't do—I should offend you."
Her first instinct was one of annoyance—a wish to send him about his business, or rather to return him to her mother who would certainly keep him in order. Instead, however, she found herself saying, as she looked carelessly out of window—
"Oh! go on."
"Well, then"—he drew himself up suddenly and wheeled round upon her—"you have the gift of compromise. That is invaluable—that will take you far."
"Thank you!" she said. "Thank you! I know what that means—from a
Venturist. You think me a mean insincere person!"