Lydia looked at him. “Oh, I wasn't born in South Bradfield. I was ten years old when I went there to live.”
“Where were you born, Miss Blood?” he asked.
“In California. My father had gone out for his health, but he died there.”
“Oh!” said Staniford. He had a book in his hand, and he began to scribble a little sketch of Lydia's pose, on a fly-leaf. She looked round and saw it. “You've detected me,” he said; “I haven't any right to keep your likeness, now. I must make you a present of this work of art, Miss Blood.” He finished the sketch with some ironical flourishes, and made as if to tear out the leaf.
“Oh!” cried Lydia, simply, “you will spoil the book!”
“Then the book shall go with the picture, if you'll let it,” said Staniford.
“Do you mean to give it to me?” she asked, with surprise.
“That was my munificent intention. I want to write your name in it. What's the initial of your first name, Miss Blood?”
“L, thank you,” said Lydia.
Staniford gave a start. “No!” he exclaimed. It seemed a fatality.