"You are a brave girl, Rosamund Lindley," he said. "You are like your mother, but you have more spirit than she ever had. You are very young--very, _very_ young, or you would not offer an old man like me--an old miser, a person whose own heart is withered--such a gift as love. What can a withered heart want with love? You are very young, Rosamund, so I forgive your rash words. I will talk to you, however. Sit near me. You may open that fresh heart to me if you feel inclined." Cousin Geoffrey and I talked together for over an hour. At the end of that time he told me he was hungry, and that if I had no objection he would go out and bring in some lunch for us both. He was now quite confidential and friendly. I made him laugh several times, and although he had apparently turned a deaf ear to my request, I fancied that I was getting on very well with him. He made me chain the hall-door after him when he went out, and he promised that he would not be longer away than he could help. He brought in two mutton-chops for our lunch, which he fried himself in the most perfect manner, over a gas-jet in his sitting-room. We had bread with our chops, and some very rare wine, which was poured into tall Venetian glasses of great beauty. "I don't open this wine for my distant relatives," he said, with a chuckle. "But you, Rosamund--your courage deserves the best I can do for you." After lunch he took me all over his large house. It was full of the most valuable and costly furniture, but all worm-eaten and going to decay from dirt and neglect. He had some paintings of immense value in his drawing-rooms, and in his library were several rare editions of costly books. "I refused three thousand pounds for that Paul Veronese," he said, pointing to a picture which I was too ignorant to appreciate. "Then you, too, love art," I said. "Of course you will help me." "I love the great in art," he answered. "But I despise the little. And of all things, what I most despise is the wild talk of the aspirant. Rosamund, you are a good girl, a plucky honest girl, but you will never be an artist. Tut, tut! There have not been more than a dozen real artists in the world, and is it likely that you will be the thirteenth? Go and darn your stockings quietly at home, Rosamund, and forget this silly little dream." I stamped my foot. "If there have hitherto been only twelve artists I will make the thirteenth," I said. "There! I am not afraid. _I_ go and darn stockings! No, I won't, not while you are alive, Cousin Geoffrey." I was angry, and I knew my eyes flashed angrily. I had often been told that my eyes could flash in a very brilliant and even alarming manner, and I was well aware that they had now bestowed a lightning glance of scorn on Cousin Geoffrey. He was not displeased. "Oh, what utter nonsense you talk!" he said. "But you are a brave girl, very brave. Why, you are not a bit afraid of me!" "Afraid?" I said. "What do you mean?"