“You have a dove there now,” she said—­“All in jewels!  And in your heart, dear child, I pray there is a spiritual dove of holy purity to guard you from all evil and keep your sweet soul safe and clean!”

A startled look came into the girl’s soft grey-blue eyes,—­a deep flush of rose flew over her cheeks and brow.

“A blessing or a warning, godmother mine?” she said.

Miss Leigh drew her close in her arms and kissed her.

“Both!” she answered, simply.

There was a moment’s silence.

Then Innocent, her face still warm with colour, walked close up to the harpsichord where her father’s picture stood.

“Let us talk of him!” she said—­“Now that you know I am his daughter, tell me all you remember of him!—­how he spoke, how he looked!—­what sort of pictures he painted—­and what he used to say to you!  He loved you once, and I love you now!—­so you must tell me everything!”

CHAPTER VIII

Fame, or notoriety, whichever that special noise may be called when the world like a hound “gives tongue” and announces that the quarry in some form of genius is at bay, is apt to increase its clamour in proportion to the aloofness of the pursued animal,—­and Innocent, who saw nothing remarkable in remaining somewhat secluded and apart from the ordinary routine of social life so feverishly followed by more than half her sex, was very soon classified as “proud”—­“eccentric”—­“difficult” and “vain,” by idle and ignorant persons who knew nothing about her, and only judged her by their own limited conceptions of what a successful author might or could possibly be like.  Some of these, more foolish than the rest, expressed themselves as afraid or unwilling to meet her—­“lest she should put them into her books”—­this being a common form of conceit with many individuals too utterly dull and uninteresting to “make copy” for so much as the humblest paragraphist.  It was quite true that she showed herself sadly deficient in the appreciation of society functions and society people,—­to her they seemed stupid and boresome, involving much waste of precious time,—­but notwithstanding this, she was invited everywhere, and the accumulation of “R.S.V.P.” cards on her table and desk made such a formidable heap that it was quite a business to clear them, as she did once a week, with the assistance of the useful waste-paper basket.  As a writer her popularity was unquestionable, and so great and insistent was the public demand for anything from her pen that she could command her own terms from any publishing quarter.  Her good fortune made very little effect upon her,—­sometimes it seemed as if she hardly realised or cared to realise it.  She had odd, almost child-like ways of spending some of her money in dainty “surprise” gifts to her friends—­that is to say, such friends as had shown her kindness,—­ beautiful flowers and fruit for invalids—­choice wines