"What—of my Uncle Neville?"
Meryon eyed her curiously, as they strolled on through the arched green of the woodland. Every now and then there were openings through which poured a fiery sun, illuminating Hester's face and form.
"Do you know"—he said at last—"there is an uncommonly queer likeness between you and that picture?"
"Me?" Hester opened her eyes in half-indifferent astonishment.
"People say such absurd things. Heaps of people think I am like Uncle
Richard—not complimentary, is it? I hope his uncle was better looking.
And, anyway, I am no relation of either of them."
"Neville and Richard were often mistaken for one another—though Neville was a deal handsomer than old Richard. However, nobody can account for likenesses. If you come to think of it, we are all descended from a small number of people. But it has often struck me—" He looked at her again attentively. "The setting of the ear—and the upper lip—and the shape of the brow—I shall bring you a photograph of the picture."
"What does it matter!" said Hester impatiently. "Besides, I am going away directly—to Paris."
"To Paris!—why and wherefore?"
"To improve my French—and"—she turned and looked at him in the face, laughing—"to make sure I don't go walks with you!"
He was silent a moment, twisting his lip.
"When do you go?"