'I wish I could, you know,' said Primrose, half smiling, half wistfully.
'And I want to know from you, Miss Kennedy, where Mr. Falkirk is this afternoon?'
'In the depths of a nap, I suppose. Is the rain slackening,
Mr. Rollo?'
'What do you think?'—as with a fresher puff of wind the rush of the raindrops to the earth seemed to be more hurried and furious. Wych Hazel listened, but did not speak her thoughts. Rollo considered her a little, and then drew up the portfolio stand and began to undo the fastenings of the portfolio.
'Do you like this sort of thing?'
'Very much. O I don't care a great deal about them as engravings, I suppose; but I like to study the faces and puzzle over the lives.'
'This collection is nothing remarkable as a collection—but it may serve your purpose, perhaps.' He set up a large, rather coarse print of Fortitude, by Sir Joshua Reynolds. The figure stands erect, armed with a helmet and plume, one hand on her hip, the other touching just the tip of one finger to a broken column by her side. At her feet a couchant lion.
'Looking at that, not as an engraving, which wouldn't be profitable, what do you see?'
'I was trying to think whether she was Mr. Falkirk's ideal,' said Wych Hazel, after a somewhat prolonged study of the engraving. 'She is not mine.'
'Why not?'