“Why, that’s a curious thing!  I know a rather clever painter named Amadis de Jocelyn—­and surely you were dancing with him on the evening I first met you?”

A wave of rosy colour swept over her cheeks.

“Yes!—­that is what I was just going to tell you!” she said.  “He is another Amadis de Jocelyn!—­and he is actually connected with a branch of the same family!  His ancestor was the brother of that very Amadis who lies buried at Briar Farm!  Is it not strange that I should have met him!—­and he is going to paint my portrait!”

“Is he indeed!” and Lord Blythe did not look impressed—­“I thought he was a landscape man.”

“So he is,” she explained, with eagerness—­“But he can do portraits—­and he wishes to make a picture of me, because I have been a student of the books written by one of his ancient line.  Those books taught me all I know of literature.  You see, it is curious, isn’t it?”

“It is,” he agreed, rather hesitatingly—­“But I’ve never quite liked Jocelyn—­he’s clever—­yet he has always struck me as being intensely selfish,—­a callous sort of man—­many artists are.”

Her eyes drooped, and her breath came and went quickly.

“I suppose all clever men get self-absorbed sometimes!” she said, with a quaint little air of wisdom—­“But I don’t think he is really callous—­” She broke off, and laughed brightly—­“Anyhow we needn’t discuss him—­need we?  I just wanted to tell you what an odd experience it has been for me to meet and to know someone descended from the family of the old French knight whose spirit was my instructor in beautiful things!  The little books of his own poems were full of loveliness—­and I used to read them over and over again.  They were all about love and faith and honour—­”

“Very old-fashioned subjects!” said Lord Blythe, with a slight smile—­“And not very much in favour nowadays!”

Miss Leigh looked at him questioningly.

“You think not?” she said.

He gave a quick sigh.

“It is difficult to know what to think,” he answered—­“But I have lived a long life—­long enough to have seen the dispersal of many illusions!  I fear selfishness is the keynote of the greater part of humanity.  Those who do the kindest deeds are invariably the worst rewarded—­and love in its highest form is so little known that it may be almost termed non-existent.  You”—­and he looked at Innocent—­“you write in a very powerful and convincing way about things of which you can have had no real experience—­and therein lies your charm!  You restore the lost youth of manhood by idealisation, and you compel your readers to ‘idealise’ with you—­ but ‘to idealise’ is rather a dangerous verb!—­and its conjugation generally means trouble and disaster.  Ideals—­unless they are of the spiritual kind unattainable on this planet—­are apt to be very disappointing.”

Innocent smiled.

“But love is an ideal which cannot disappoint, because it is everlasting!” she said, almost joyously.  “The story of the old French knight is, in its way, a proof of that.  He loved his ideal all his life, even though he could not win her.”