"It was meant for your face. But I could do a better one now. See, this is Mr. Beck, the American gentleman; and this is Captain Ladds. This is Mr. Cassilis."
They were the roughest unfinished things, but she had seized the likeness in every one.
Jack kept his own portrait in his hand.
"Let me keep it."
"Please, no; I want that one for myself."
Once more, and for the last time in his life, a little distrust crossed Jack Dunquerque's mind. Could this girl, after all, be only the most accomplished of all coquettes? He looked up at her face as she stood beside him, and then abused himself for treachery to love.
"It is like me," he said, looking at the pencil portrait; "but you have made me too handsome."
She shook her head.
"You are very handsome, I think," she said gravely.
He was not, strictly speaking, handsome at all. He was rather an ugly youth, having no regularity of features. And it was a difficult face to draw, because he wore no beard—nothing but a light moustache to help it out.