“I should, though!” was his quick thought, while he marvelled at her unworldliness.

“Besides”—­she continued—­“she has no right over me.”

“Who has any right over you?” he asked, curiously.

She laughed, softly.

“No one!—­except you!”

“Oh, hang me!” he exclaimed, impatiently—­“Leave me out of the question.  Have you no father or mother?”

She was a little hurt at his sudden irritability.

“No,” she answered, quietly—­“I have often told you I have no one.  I am alone in the world—­I can do as I like.”  Then a smile brightened her face.  “Lord Blythe would have me as a daughter if I would go to him.”

He started and loosened her from his embrace.

“Lord Blythe!  That wealthy old peer!  What does he want with you?”

“Nothing, I suppose, but the pleasure of my company!” and she laughed—­“Doesn’t that seem strange?”

He rose and went back to work at his easel.

“Rather!” he said, slowly—­“Are you going to accept his offer?”

Her eyes opened widely.

“I?  My Amadis, how can you think it?  I would not accept it for all the world!  He would load me with benefits—­he would surround me with luxuries—­but I do not want these.  I like to work for myself and be independent.”  He laid a brush lightly in colour and began to use it with delicate care.

“You are not very wise,” he then said—­“It’s a great thing for a young girl like you who are all alone in the world, to be taken in hand by such a man as Blythe.  He’s a statesman,—­very useful to his country,—­he’s very rich and has a splendid position.  His wife’s sudden death has left him very lonely as he has no children,—­you could be a daughter to him, and it would be a great leap upwards for you, socially speaking.  You would be much better off under his care than scribbling books.”

She drew a sharp breath of pain,—­all the pretty colour fled from her cheeks.

“You do not care for me to scribble books!” she said, in low, stifled accents.

He laughed.

“Oh, I don’t mind!—­I never read them,—­and in a way it amuses me!  You are such an armful of sweetness—­such a warm, nestling little bird of love in my arms!—­and to think that you actually write books that the world talks about!—­the thing is so incongruous—­so ‘out of drawing’ that it makes me laugh!  I don’t like writing women as a rule—­they give themselves too many airs to please me—­ but you—­”

He paused.

“Well, go on,” she said, coldly.

He looked at her, smiling.

“You are cross?  Don’t be cross,—­you lose your enchanting expression!  Well—­you don’t give yourself any airs, and you seem to play at literature like a child playing at a game:  of course you make money by it,—­but—­you know better than I do that the greatest writers”—­he emphasized the word “greatest” slightly—­ “never make money and are never popular.”