“There is no ‘of course’ in it,” he said, a humorous curve lifting the corners of his moustache—­“You’re not bound to love pictures at all!  Most people hate them, and scarcely anybody understands them!”

She listened, charmed by the mellow and deep vibration of his voice.

“Everybody comes to see our friend here,” he continued, with a slight gesture of his hand towards their host, who had moved away,—­“because he is the fashion.  If he were not the fashion he might paint like Velasquez or Titian and no one would care a button!”

He seemed entertained by his own talk, and she did not interrupt him.

“You look like a stranger here,” he went on, in milder accents—­“a sort of elf who has lost her way out of fairyland!  Is anyone with you?”

“Yes,” she answered, quickly—­“Miss Leigh—­”

“Miss Leigh?  Who is she?  Your aunt or your chaperone?”

She was more at her ease now, and laughed at his quick, brusque manner of speech.

“Miss Leigh is my godmother,” she said—­“I call her my fairy godmother because she is always so good and kind.  There she is, standing by that big easel.”

He looked in the direction indicated.

“Oh yes!—­I see!  A charming old lady!  I love old ladies when they don’t pretend to be young.  That white hair of hers is very picturesque!  So she is your godmother!—­and she takes care of you!  Well!  She might do worse!”

He ruffled his thick crop of hair and looked at her more or less quizzically.

“You have an air of suppressed enquiry,” he said—­“There is something on your mind!  You want to ask me a question—­what is it?”

A soft colour flew over her cheeks—­she was confused to find him reading her thoughts.

“It is really nothing!” she answered, quickly—­“I was only wondering a little about your name—­because it is one I have known all my life.”

His eyebrows went up in surprise.

“Indeed?  This is very interesting!  I thought I was the only wearer of such a very medieval appellation!  Is there another so endowed?”

“There was another—­long, long ago”—­and, unconsciously to herself her delicate features softened into a dreamy and rapt expression as she spoke,—­while her voice fell into its sweetest and most persuasive tone.  “He was a noble knight of France, and he came over to England with the Due d’ Anjou when the great Elizabeth was Queen.  He fell in love with a very beautiful Court lady, who would not care for him at all,—­so, as he was unhappy and broken-hearted, he went away from London and hid himself from everybody in the far country.  There he bought an old manor-house and called it Briar Farm—­and he married a farmer’s daughter and settled in England for good—­and he had six sons and daughters.  And when he died he was buried on his own land—­and his effigy is on his tomb —­it was sculptured by himself.  I used to put flowers on it, just where his motto was carved—­’Mon coeur me soutien.’  For I—­I was brought up at Briar Farm... and I was quite fond of the Sieur Amadis!”