He started and changed colour. This was unexpected. If the girl was to go on talking in this way outside, it would be difficult to reply. What was he to say if the words were reported to him? Because, you see, once pointed out, there could be no doubt at all about the portrait. 'A portrait of myself,' she repeated. 'Permit me to observe,' he said, with some assumption of dignity, 'that you will find it very difficult to prove these statements--most difficult--and at the same time highly dangerous, because libellous.' 'No, not dangerous, Mr. Feilding. Would you dare to go into a Court of Justice and swear that these pictures are yours? When did you go to Scilly? Where did you stay? Under what circumstances did you have me for a model? On what island did you find this view?' He was silent. 'Will you dare to paint anything--the merest sketch--to show that this picture is in your own style? You cannot.' 'Anyone,' he said, 'may bring charges--the most reckless charges. But I think you would hardly dare----' 'I will do this, then. If you dare to exhibit this picture as your own, I will, most assuredly, take all my friends and stand in front of it, and tell them when and where it was painted, and by whom, and show them my own portrait.' The resolution of this threat quelled him. 'I have no intention,' he said, 'of exhibiting this picture. It is sold to an American, and will go to New York immediately. Next year, perhaps, I may take up your challenge.' She laughed scornfully. 'I promised Roland,' she said, 'that you should not show this picture. That is settled, then. You shall not, you dare not.' She left the picture reluctantly. It was dreadful to her to think that it must go, with his name upon it. On a side-table lay, among a pile of books, the dainty white-and-gold volume of poems bearing the name of this great genius. She took it up, and laughed. 'Oh!' she said. 'Was there ever greater impudence? Every line in this volume was written by Effie Wilmot--every line!' 'Indeed? Who says so?' 'I say so. I have compared the manuscript with the volume. There is not the difference of a word.' 'If Miss Effie Wilmot, for purposes of her own, and for base purposes of deception, has copied out my verses in her own handwriting, probably a wonderful agreement may be found.' 'Shame!' cried Armorel. 'You see the force of that remark. It _is_ a great shame. Some girls take to lying naturally. Others acquire proficiency in the art. Effie, I suppose, took to it naturally. I am sorry for Effie. I used to think better of her.' 'Oh! He tries, even now! How can you pretend--you--to have written this sweet and dainty verse? Oh! You dare to put your signature to these poems!'