But he looked at them very kindly, and asked a good many questions about them.
"Look at this," I said, handing him an Antwerp peasant-woman in her hideous bonnet. "Isn't that ridiculously like Charlotte Benson? I bought it because it was so singular a resemblance."
"It is like her," he said, thoughtfully, looking at it long. "The mouth is a little larger and the eyes further apart. But it is a most striking likeness. It might almost have been taken for her."
"How is she, and when have you seen her?" I said, a little choked for breath.
"She is very well. I saw her yesterday," he answered, still looking at the little picture.
"I hope she doesn't keep everybody in order as sharply as she used to?" I said, with a bitter little laugh.
"I don't know," he said. "I think, perhaps, she is rather less decided than she used to be."
"Oh, you call it decision, do you? Well, I'm glad I know what it is. I used to think it hadn't such a pretty name as that."
Richard looked grave; it certainly was not a graceful way to lead up to congratulations.
"But then, you always liked her," I said.
"Yes, I always liked her," he answered, simply.
"I'm afraid I'm not very amiable," I retorted, "for I never liked her: no better even than that fraudulent Mary Leighton, clever and sensible as she always was. There is such a thing as being too clever, and too sensible, and making yourself an offence to all less admirable people."
Richard was entirely silent, and, I was sure, was disapproving of me very much.
"Do you know what I heard yesterday?" I said, In a daring way. "And I hope you're going to tell me if it's true, to-night?"
"What was it that you heard yesterday?" he asked, without much change of tone. He had laid down the photograph, and had gone back, and was leaning by the mantelpiece again.
"Why, I heard that you were going to marry Charlotte Benson. Is it true?"
I had pushed away the pile of photographs from me, and had looked up at him when I began, but my voice and courage rather failed before the end, and my eyes fell. There was a silence--a silence that seemed to stifle me.
"Why do you ask me that question?" he said, at last, in a low voice. "Do you believe I am, yourself?"
"No," I cried, springing up, and going over to his side. "No, I don't believe it. Tell me it isn't true, and promise me you won't ever, ever marry Charlotte Benson."