“Ze picture--ah! monsieur, it is beautiful,” said the Count, who sat near them. “But ze lady--she sat for me long ago and I had ze honor myself to paint her portrait.” He was a thin, wiry Frenchman, with small, black eyes, a forehead sloping to a bald crown, an aquiline nose and a pointed chin, adorned with an imperial. The face was almost mephistophelian in effect. He had painted her portrait! Was the man an impostor? I asked myself. “The Count is an artist himself, you know,” said Miss Paddington. “Yes--an artist?” asked Rayel in a half-incredulous tone. Then he looked inquiringly at the gentleman referred to, as if doubtful of his own understanding of the words he had repeated. “Yes,” said the Count with emphasis. “For twenty years I have devote myself to ze art.” “To what art, sir?” asked Rayel, in a tone suggesting doubt. I was now thoroughly frightened at the serious turn of the dialogue. Was this “Count” a pretender and one of the many bogus noblemen of whom I had read? Rayel was sounding him, that was quite evident. I saw now the mistake I had made in bringing my cousin to such a place. “Quel impudence!” exclaimed the insulted nobleman, under his breath. “Forgive me, sir,” quickly answered Rayel, “I did not know it was wrong to ask you.” “I wish you would paint my portrait, Mr. Lane,” said the young lady, who did not seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation. “That would be easy enough,” he answered. “Would it? Ah, but I fear you would find me too plain a subject. I am not beautiful, you know, but if I wore my best clothes you might think I would do.” For some time Miss Paddington continued to spin out threads of small talk, while Rayel sat listening. The dinner was nearly over when the climax came which I had already begun to fear. “It is strange,” said Rayel thoughtfully. “You speak what is not true, Miss Paddington. You said that the Prince of Wales gave you the beautiful opal, but tell me--was it not your father who gave it you?” He waited a moment for her answer. “Oh, I understand now,” he continued. “People do not always speak the truth--do they?” The young lady turned red with embarrassment, while an unnatural smile played upon her lips. “But--but what is the use of talking then?” he asked. No one seemed disposed to answer. “It is strange,” he continued, with childlike naivete, turning to the young lady sitting at his left, “you have been laughing as if you were very happy, but you have felt more like weeping. This must be a very sad world!” He ceased speaking as if some suspicion of the pain his words were causing had suddenly come to him. The whole company turned its eyes upon the two. The young lady's face became suddenly pale and almost horror-stricken. Rayel's words were spoken in such a gentle and sympathetic manner that every one was mystified.