“What is it?” asked Cynthia, not without interest.
“Sit down on the sofa and I'll tell you,” said Miss Duncan; “I've done it all from your face, too. I've made you a very poor girl brought up by peasants, only you are really of a great family, although nobody knows it. A rich duke sees you one day when he is hunting and falls in love with you, and you have to stand a lot of suffering and persecution because of it, and say nothing. I believe you could do that,” added Janet, looking critically at Cynthia's face.
“I suppose I could if I had to,” said Cynthia, “but I shouldn't like it.”
“Oh, it would do you good,” said Janet; “it would ennoble your character. Not that it needs it,” she added hastily. “And I could write another story about that quaint old man who paid the musicians to go away, and who made us all laugh so much.”
Cynthia's eye kindled.
“Mr. Bass isn't a quaint old man,” she said; “he's the greatest man in the state.”
Miss Duncan's patronage had been of an unconscious kind. She knew that she had offended, but did not quite realize how.
“I'm so sorry,” she cried, “I didn't mean to hurt you. You live with him, don't you—Coniston?”
“Yes,” replied Cynthia, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.
“I've heard about Coniston. It must be quite a romance in itself to live all the year round in such a beautiful place and to make your own clothes. Yours become you very well,” said Miss Duncan, “although I don't know why. They're not at all in style, and yet they give you quite an air of distinction. I wish I could live in Coniston for a year, anyway, and write a book about you. My brother and Bob Worthington went out there one night and serenaded you, didn't they?”