“Guess what picture it was?” said she.
“Probably some new acquisition; some wonderful discovery you have made in your rounds, like that picture by Cigoli you got thrown into the bargain the other day when you bought the frame it was in.”
“By no means; this is a modern picture representing Cordelia at the feet of her father, and the original—”
“Come, princess, are you in earnest? Has George really given you that picture?”
“Given?” said the princess, her eyes twinkling as she played with her long necklace of pearls. “No; at least that was not his intention. But could he refuse to lend a picture that affords me so much pleasure during the absence of—Cordelia? It was the whim of an invalid suddenly deprived of her nurse! which, with some persistence on my part, could not be refused! and after giving, moreover, such a proof of indulgence to him and of condescension towards her!—”
“Ah! princess, what a consummate diplomatist you are!”
“To be serious,” said she, “do you know I had never noticed this resemblance at all, having seen the picture only once, then I did not examine it particularly, and I had never seen Gabrielle? You know George’s cabinet is a sanctuary I rarely invade, and, besides, the picture has had a curtain over it the past year.”
“And what inspired you with the idea of looking at it now?”
“He himself by the delightful tale he related to me the other evening.”
“And where have you hung it now?”