Well, well! no wonder you are surprised! Here
is the artist's portrait; do you remember him?" She turned over a few
leaves of the book and pushed it towards Eily.
[Sidenote: "At Last!"]
Did Eily remember him? Ay, indeed! There were the clear blue eyes, the
straight nose, the drooping moustache. Eily snatched up the book
eagerly, "Misther Hamilton! at last! at last!" With a great sob her head
fell forward on the table, and Mrs. Grey guessed the young girl's
secret.
Leslie Hamilton, R.A., was entertaining. In the middle of a smart crowd
of society people he stood, the lion of the season. "The Queen of
Connemara" had made him name and fame. He was smiling on all, as well he
might, for his name was in every one's mouth.
Standing about the studio, chattering gaily, or lounging idly, the
guests of Leslie Hamilton were admiring everything while they sipped tea
out of delicate Sevres cups. The artist himself was busy, yet his
attention was chiefly directed to a beautiful young girl who sat on a
velvet lounge, a tiny lap-dog on her knee. She was tall and dignified in
mien, with soft grey eyes and bronze-gold hair, among which the sunlight
was playing as it stole through a window behind her. She was the beauty
of the season, and her father's sole heiress. Cold and distant with
others, she was affable and even kind to Leslie Hamilton, and among her
friends it was whispered such treatment could only end in one way; and
though better things had been spoken of for Bee Vandaleur, the wife of
an R.
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