"It is God's truth," Wrayson answered. "I would stake my soul upon it that the girl—I told you about—was the original of that picture! When I look at your daughter Edith I can see the likeness." The Colonel's head was buried in his hands. His exclamation sounded like a sob. "My God!" he murmured. Then there was silence. Only the nightingale went on with his song. CHAPTER VIII THE BARONESS INTERVENES The Baroness trifled with some grapes and looked languidly round the room. "My dear Louise," she declared, "it is the truth what every one tells me of your country. You are a dull people. I weary myself here." The girl whom she had addressed as Louise shrugged her shoulders. "So do I, so do all of us," she answered, a little wearily. "What would you have? One must live somewhere." The Baroness sighed, and from a chatelaine hung with elegant trifles selected a gold cigarette case. An attentive waiter rushed for a match and presented it. The Baroness gave a little sigh of content as she leaned back in her chair. She smoked as one to the manner born. "One must live somewhere, it is true," she agreed, "but why London? I think that of all great cities it is the most provincial. It lacks what you call the atmosphere. The people are all so polite, and so deadly, deadly dull. How different in Paris or Berlin, even Brussels!" "Circumstances are a little against us, aren't they?" Louise remarked. "Our opportunities for making acquaintances are limited." The Baroness made a little grimace. "You, my young friend," she said, "are of the English—very English. Quite Saxon, in fact. With you there would never be any making of acquaintances! I feel myself in the bonds of a cast-iron chaperonage whenever I move out with you. Why is it, little one? Have you never any desire to amuse yourself?" "I don't quite understand you," her companion answered dryly. "If you mean that I have no desire to encourage promiscuous acquaintances, you are certainly right. I prefer to be dull." The Baroness sighed gently.
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