Pride Prejudice and Prodigy

The Third Christmas at Pemberley

Chapter 10 ~ The Third Christmas at Pemberley

Author's note: There is an eighteen month gap between chapters nine and ten. The reader may rest assured that the conjugal felicity enjoyed by Mr and Mrs Darcy has continued unabated during this period, in which Lady Darlington and Julia have been resident at the Kympton parsonage, and Georgiana has transformed from the shy, self-conscious girl of Pride and Prejudice into a unique young lady.

Elizabeth's third Christmas at Pemberley was a time of great happiness and joy; not only for herself and her husband, but for the many friends who joined them for the festivities of the season. Her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner were with them once again, along with all their delightful children, much to the delight of Elizabeth and her sister Jane, who was visiting with her husband Charles. Lady Darlington and Julia, who had now resided some eighteen months at the nearby parsonage at Kympton, were much at Pemberley, along with James Darlington who was up from London for his first lengthy visit. Only two of those invited had been unable to join them: Caroline Bingley, whom Elizabeth had felt obliged to invite, and was much relieved when that lady chose to stay in town with her sister; and Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had politely declined the invitation, claiming a prior engagement at Rosings Park. He had, in fact, declined all invitations to visit Pemberley since Julia Darlington had taken up residence at Kympton, Elizabeth reflected sadly. He must still be very much in love with her.

Lady Darlington advised Elizabeth concerning the multitude of arrangements, which might otherwise have overwhelmed her. One of the highlights of the season was the musical performances in the evenings. Under Julia's continued instruction, Georgiana was by now almost the equal of her teacher on the pianoforte. Elizabeth's programme of self-improvement for her sister had achieved very pleasing results. She was now a well-informed young lady, in music, art, literature, and also history and natural science; which, conjoined with the steady guidance and encouragement she received from Lady Darlington, had greatly improved her confidence and poise in company. She played and sang before the many guests without the least embarrassment.

On occasion, Julia or James Darlington would accompany Georgiana on the violin, or one would play the violin and the other the viola. Elizabeth, who declined to play in the company of such fine musicians, was occasionally persuaded by her husband to sing. On one memorable evening, James Darlington and Georgiana sang a set of Italian love duets, accompanied by Julia on the pianoforte. They both possessed remarkable voices, and the whole party sat enraptured.

Afterwards, while they were taking supper, Elizabeth said to her husband, “Darling, I have just had the most wonderful idea! Let us ask Mr Darlington to make a portrait of Georgiana during his visit. It is some years since last she was painted. It would be wonderful to have another made now. If it is really good, it might hang in the picture-gallery alongside your portrait and mine – the one Mr Darlington presented to us on our wedding.”

Darcy felt everyone looking at him. Darlington was smiling, probably recalling the day he came with Elizabeth's portrait to Grosvenor Square. Afraid that Darlington might make mention of it, Darcy quickly replied, “I fear, my dear, that Mr Darlington is too much occupied with his literary pursuits at present, to have time for other arts.”

“Not at all, Darcy, it would be my pleasure, if the young lady wishes it. Although, I must warn you, I am quite out of practice. I have not exercised my art in these two years, at least. I can in no way promise that it will be as fine as the one that now graces your picture-gallery – my pièce de résistance,” he said turning and bowing his head slightly to Elizabeth.

“An artist, I believe, should always strive to improve upon his art, and to better his previous efforts,” she responded. “And I cannot think of a more suitable subject for such an endeavour than our dear Georgiana.”

James Darlington did not fail to note the mischievous tone in her voice, and wondered at her meaning. Elizabeth smiled at him playfully, then turned her eyes towards Georgiana, who was struggling to maintain her poise beneath all the attention. Lady Darlington, who was sitting beside her, squeezed her hand gently, and said, “My dear, I think it a wonderful idea to have you painted at this time of life. I wish very much that I had a portrait of myself, in the full flush of youth; it would have been something to look back upon later in life. Please agree to sit for James; it would give me such pleasure.”

“Very well,” agreed Georgiana, who felt such affection for the older lady, that she could not refuse her.

***

The following morning, James Darlington arrived with his artist's paraphernalia, and was led by Elizabeth to the conservatory, which, it had been agreed, would provide the best light for the time of year. Georgiana, who was seated with a book, rose from her chair to exchange greetings with the gentleman, who moved her chair out of the sunlight she had been enjoying.

“I apologise, Miss Darcy, at depriving you of the little sunshine the season has to offer, but direct sunlight will not do; it is too variable, and just as likely to disappear when a cloud comes along.”

“Oh, it is no matter, sir, the conservatory is deliciously warm, even out of the sun; I often come here to read, especially in winter,” replied Georgiana, seating herself once more.

“It was fortunate, Mr Darlington, that you had your painting equipment with you,” observed Elizabeth as he was setting his things in place.

“They were, in fact, in storage at Kympton. I have very little space in my London rooms. As I told you last night, it has been a very long time since last I wielded a paint brush. If I am not mistaken, I have not painted since the day you encountered me in the lane near my mother's house, making a summer version of the landscape, with you standing beneath that lovely oak tree – the very same spot where I painted your portrait, I believe. Which reminds me, I must pay a visit to your picture-gallery; my mother tells me it contains some very fine paintings… and I am eager to reacquaint myself with your portrait, and revisit the height of my artistic achievement.”

“I think you may find, sir, that those qualities which served you so well on that occasion are merely awaiting the chance to express themselves again,” said Elizabeth, smiling at him, then turning her gaze towards Georgiana, who was more aware than they imagined of the undercurrent of their conversation.

James Darlington turned to regard Georgiana. She was grown into a handsome young lady, and there was something about her face, an inquisitive intelligence in the eyes and a hint of playfulness – or perhaps it was the mouth which gave her that touch of impishness. “It will be hard to do Miss Darcy justice,” said Darlington in a voice which expressed apprehension, rather than any intention of flattery, “but I shall give it my best.”

“I shall leave you to your work then,” said Elizabeth, “I must speak with Reynolds about arrangements for dinner. But perhaps you might first ask Miss Darcy to assume the pose you require,” said Elizabeth, with a smile. The gentleman's face showed a consciousness which convinced her that he recalled her acute embarrassment when he had touched her in order to turn her head in the required direction when he painted her two years before. She wished to spare Georgiana any similar embarrassment.

The artist succeeded in getting his subject into the desired attitude without the need of physical contact, and took up his brush and palette. “You know, this easel was given to me by my parents on my twelfth birthday; at that time, my heart was set upon becoming an artist. Art was my first love; but later I discovered music, and it has since remained my greatest love.”

“It is sometimes like that with people, also, Mr Darlington,” said Elizabeth with a wry smile, before exiting the conservatory.

“May I enquire what you were reading when we interrupted you earlier?” asked James Darlington as he set to work.

“It is an anthology of poetry,” replied Georgiana.

“What poem were you reading?”

“Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love's day;” recited Georgiana.

“Marvel, ‘To his Coy Mistress', I think,” said he, continuing,

“Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires.

“How does it end?” he asked.

“And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.”

“A wonderful poem; though I am a little surprised that your brother allows you to read such poetry,” said Darlington with amusement.

“My brother has nothing to say concerning what I read. My sister Elizabeth makes suggestions, but she allows me read what I will. It was you mother, Lady Darlington, who lent me the anthology – it is yours, I believe.”

“Yes, very probably it is. If my mother believes you mature enough for such subjects, I am sure she must be right.”

“Her ladyship recommended this poem to me – as instructive. For while this genre of carpe diem poetry is often exciting and agreeable, and full of the joy of life, there is also much to be learned from it,” she replied decidedly.

“Oh?” said James Darlington in mild surprise.

“Such poetry prepares a young lady for the many and varied gentlemanly artifices that might collectively be termed seduction.”

“Ah… yes, I see her point,” said James Darlington, smiling.

“Please do not think me obsessed with the subject, but you must know that I have a substantial fortune, and sadly, I must expect to be a target of fortune hunters,” she said, giving a heartfelt sigh.

James Darlington could not but be touched by her sadness, and sought to turn her mind to other subjects. “What poets do you like? I mean, that you would read for pleasure, rather than instruction?”

“They are not necessarily set in contradiction – a poem may be both pleasurable and instructive. The Marvel poem is one such, and he is a favourite of mine; along with Byron, Cowper and Pope – and Shakespeare of course. But my very favourite is John Donne.”

“I am most surprised,” said the gentleman, stopping his work. “He is little known, and quite out of favour these days. I am astonished that you even managed to find anything of his.”

“I must confess, I came upon his work while looking through your mother's library at Kympton. I believe many of the books are yours, from your time at Cambridge. I hope you do not mind?”

“No, not in the least. I have far too many books to keep them all with me in town, although I believe that the best of my Donne collection must be there – I like to have him close at hand.”

“Is he your favourite also?” asked Georgiana.

“Indeed so.”

“I have read some of your poetry,” she said.

“Yes, I imagine you could hardly escape it in my mother's house,” he said with a grin. “I see you are a serious reader and a critic of poetry, so I shall not embarrass us both by asking your opinion on my meagre efforts, I might find it discouraging.”

“On the contrary, your poetry is very much to my taste, and if you devoted the same energy to poetry as you do to prose, I think you might equally leave your mark there,” she said forthrightly, without the least trace of shyness.

“Unfortunately, writing poetry is a luxury I can ill-afford at the present time. It is not at all profitable, and sadly I need to earn an income by my pen. Who is your favourite author?” he asked.

“Of novels?”

“Yes. Or do you side with Fordyce in the matter, and consider novels to be a contaminating influence upon young ladies?”

Georgiana laughed. “On the contrary, I rather side with my sister, who shares my love of novels. Our favourite author, together with almost every other young lady in England, is Josephine Defoe. And there is no need to pretend otherwise, Mr Darlington, for it is at least two years since I learned that Josephine Defoe is your nom de plume.”

“My dear mother again?” he enquired with resignation.

“No, Elizabeth, revealed it. I was remarking upon the exceptional similarities between herself and the heroine, Evelyn, in A Romance in Four Seasons. They seemed too great to be mere coincidence. She confided in me the true identity of the author, and that you had modelled Evelyn upon herself, and the hero, Jason, upon yourself and my brother.”

James Darlington looked up to find Georgiana staring at him with a very inquisitive gaze. “Were you in love with my sister at the time that you wrote it?”

“Good heavens, what gave you such an idea? Has she said something to you on the subject?”

“No-one has spoken a word to me on the subject. And although it amused me that you used her character for Evelyn, I never for a moment considered the possibility of anything romantic between you and Elizabeth.”

James Darlington said nothing and busied himself with his work.

“At least not until last night, when Elizabeth first suggested you paint me, and more particularly this morning, when I began observing you both more closely and noticed the cryptic exchanges; and subtle body movements and expressions of the face. Although there was nothing at all subtle about the way you blushed just now at my question… and the manner of your answer.”

“Have you made a study of physiognomy, Miss Darcy?”

“No, I have read but little on the subject. My study has been of people. Being many years younger than my brother, I was used, very often, to find myself surrounded by his acquaintances. For many years, I felt too shy to speak amongst them, so I passed my time in observation. I am particularly fascinated by the way people often say one thing, while attempting to convey an entirely different meaning, when in all likelihood they actually feel and believe something yet different again.”

“You are indeed an acute observer, Miss Darcy,” said James Darlington, smiling.

“And I am very quick to notice those devices people sometimes use to change the subject, or avoid an awkward question – as you did just now,” she answered with just the hint of a smile.

“Surely, Miss Darcy, being so alert an observer of the myriad steps and intricate finesses of the social waltz, you must realise that one of the rules of the dance is to pretend not to understand what people wish not to be understood.”

“Oh, yes, I am well aware of that; and your most knowledgeable mother has given me excellent dancing lessons. But sometimes it is pleasant, is it not, to leave the whirl and the noise of the ballroom; and to lower the mask of the masquerade, and speak plainly, without artifice and ambiguity.”

“Most people, I think, would find such a suggestion disquieting.”

“But not you, I think, Mr Darlington.”

James Darlington was by this time, so interested in Miss Darcy's words, that he had laid down his brush. “You are correct, Miss Darcy; how did you guess?”

“Lady Darlington has become a very close friend these eighteen months, if I may make so presumptuous a claim. She speaks of you often, and always in the most glowing terms.”

“You will, doubtless, have noticed her penchant for blind partiality towards me,” he said with a smile.

“Oh yes, of course,” replied Georgiana, “that is most obvious, and to the credit of her loving heart. Lady Darlington has spoken often of your independent spirit; as a child, a youth, and now a man. It makes me think how lucky you and Julia were to have parents who allowed you such freedoms. I was very young when my own parents died, and my aunt chose my governesses.”

“Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”

“Yes, do you know my aunt?”

“More by reputation than acquaintance; and since you expressed a desire to speak plainly, I will tell you my opinion… no, she is your aunt; you shall not hear it. All I shall say is that it is not favourable, and that she is the very last person I would have wished to choose a governess for myself.”

“Yes,” sighed Georgiana. “They were all of them competent ladies, no doubt, and they certainly worked me hard; but they were totally lacking in imagination.”

“And you were not?”

“No, never. I was obliged to strive slavishly for all the usual graces and attainments befitting a young lady; but it left a good deal of time for me to question all that I observed going on around me. However, it was not until Elizabeth became my sister two years ago, that there was a person with whom I could actually speak of such matters; which I believe, brings us back to the question you have been so assiduously avoiding.”

James Darlington picked up his brush and resumed his work while he considered how best to answer the question. “It seems you wish for us to speak plainly to one another, and I must say, I find it rather refreshing. Although I may simply say, ‘I do not wish to answer the question.' It would be an honest answer.”

“Yes, agreed, it would be both honest and reasonable; although I would naturally take it to mean yes.”

James Darlington sighed, and worked silently for a few minutes before speaking. “The truth of the matter is that I am uncertain. I was greatly attracted to Elizabeth – excuse me, Mrs Darcy – but knowing it was entirely impossible, given my circumstances, I did not allow myself to think very much about her. I have a highly disciplined mind.”

“And she was attracted to you.”

“My god, what a question!” said Darlington, shaking his head.

“It was not a question,” corrected Georgiana, “but a statement; a deduction based upon my observations.”

“Then you probably know more of the matter than I,” said the gentleman, smiling. “But one thing I am very certain of, from my own observations at the time: her attraction to your brother was far stronger.”

“And now Elizabeth feels sorry for you. She fears that she may have broken your heart, and so she is attempting to make amends by forwarding a match between you and me.”

James Darlington was so stunned at her words that he dropped his brush and began to laugh.

Georgiana became uncomfortable at his mirth. “Do you think it so funny, sir, so unlikely? It seemed hidden in the language she used this morning; or did I perhaps misunderstand her cryptic words?”

“No, Miss Darcy, your understanding is perfect. I too, was aware of her intention; it is almost certainly the reason she asked me to paint your portrait. The reason for my laughter is the way in which you speak in so explicit a manner on such a subject. I have never experienced so direct a conversation in my life.”

“Please do not misunderstand me, Mr Darlington. I do not believe that she is forwarding the match in your interest only – or even primarily for your benefit – I am quite certain that she believes the match to be very much in my own interest also. I love Elizabeth dearly; and have the highest opinion of her. I am certain she would always do the very best for me.”

“But you are yet young for your sister to be thinking of you marrying, Miss Darcy; you cannot yet be twenty years of age.”

“I am not; and I do not think Elizabeth wishes me to marry yet. This is probably the beginning of a long term campaign. Since we are being candid, Mr Darlington, I must tell you that you should not entertain any hope that I would ever accept you.”

James Darlington smiled. “Then I am very glad that I did not ask you to marry me.”

“I shall be sure to tell you, if I should have a change of heart,” she replied, with just the trace of a smile. “Please do not feel offended. There are two very good reasons why I could not accept you: firstly, you are too poor. You may think that avaricious of me, since I have a large fortune, myself. It is only that I have an excessive fear of being duped by a fortune hunter; and the only certain way of avoiding such an eventuality is to never consider a man who is less wealthy than myself.”

“No matter how successful my writing career, I shall certainly never have anything approaching you fortune, Miss Darcy, so there is the end of my unstarted suit. I must admit to being surprised, that with your evident ability at divining the character and intentions of others, you feel you would be unable to recognise so mercenary a motive in a would-be suitor.”

“May I ask that our conversation remain confidential, sir?”

“That was already my understanding, but you have my explicit confirmation.”

“When I was fifteen years old, I was deceived by a fortune hunter into believing that he loved me and I him. It was only my brother's unexpected arrival a day before we were to elope, that prevented it.”

“I see,” said Darlington sadly; keenly aware of the scar that remained. “So you determined to become an adept in the study of character; in which endeavour you have succeeded admirably. And in so doing you have penetrated the pretences and ritual dances of society.”

“Yes, exactly,” she said.

“Yet despite these prodigious skills, still you are fearful of another deception. It must have been entirely awful for you,” he said with gentle sympathy. “But this worry will not remain with you forever – it will disappear when you are happily married to a wealthy gentleman,” he said encouragingly.

“Yes, you are quite correct, I had not considered that.” Georgiana laughed. “Oh dear, then I shall never be relieved of that particular fear; for I do not intend to marry. That was the second reason why I could not have accepted you, Mr Darlington.”

“That is a very unusual decision for a young lady – especially one… how can I put it without giving you the wrong impression? Miss Darcy, you are probably one of the most eligible young ladies in England. Even restricting yourself to gentlemen of the requisite wealth, you are certain to be greatly sought after. You are of a noble family, you excel in all the attainments, and you have charm, manners… and extraordinary beauty.”

“You offend me, Mr Darlington, by extolling my ornamental virtues!” she said warmly.

James Darlington sighed. “You misunderstand me, Miss Darcy; I was merely listing your virtues, measured in the conventional currency of marriageable worth. To me, your intelligence, learning, thirst for knowledge, honesty, and penetration of character and artifice, are far more admirable qualities; but they are of little worth in the matrimonial marketplace.”

Georgiana laughed. “You are forgiven, Mr Darlington; you echo my own opinions and analysis of marriage most amusingly. Matrimony seems so much like a business transaction.”

“Yes… and yet… there are those who find happiness therein. Take your own brother and sister, or Mr and Mrs Bingley, for example; I think they have all found great happiness with their partner. You are yet young to be so cynical.”

“I agree that those you mention are indeed happy. But look how many are not –including those who once fancied themselves in love. Even love is no guarantee of happiness, it can fade – or simply be imagined,” she said sadly.

“As you once imagined yourself in love with that fortune-hunting rogue?”

“Exactly! Love cannot be trusted; marriage is a gamble. So why should I contemplate it? I am perfectly happy as I am, now that I have the most wonderful sister in the world; and the dearest friend in Julia, and the love and wisdom of your mother, who is truly like a mother to me. I have no need of anything else.”

“I suppose that makes me almost a brother then?” said he with a smile. “I hope we shall be friends, always.”

“I too,” said Georgiana earnestly. “Then I can ask you to teach me that Mozart piano concerto you played the evening before last. Please say you will. And if you have time you could help me with the violin. I have been studying with Julia for over a year. She plays wonderfully well, but you have a way of playing… oh, it seems like you are pouring out your soul. I know these things must come from within, but if you would play with me, perhaps I could begin to comprehend something of your art.”

“It seems that you intend to keep me busy while I am in Derbyshire,” he said with a laugh. “You must leave me a little time for writing; I have a novel to complete.”

“Yes, of course; but since you are now engaged in painting, it is an excellent opportunity to ask you about your writing. I wish to know how you go about it,” she said, enthusiastically.

“Do you write yourself?” asked he; quite certain of what the answer would be.

“Oh yes, I have always written, for as long as I can remember. I have tried to write poetry, of course, but I do not find it as enjoyable as story writing. That is what I especially wish to ask you: how do you devise your plot and your characters; and which comes first?”

“Generally, I start with a vague plot – or at least the beginnings of one; often I am uncertain as to how it will end – I may have several possible endings in mind. Next I choose my principal characters and decide upon their attributes: the sort of people they are, the things they wish for in life, and so on. As you already know, I borrow heavily from my own acquaintance; but I often create a character from two or three different people, using different attributes from each. Then I place them in a scene, and let them behave according to their disposition.”

“Goodness, how frightfully interesting,” said Georgiana, fascinated. “It seems almost like watching a play for the first time. You put your characters on the stage, and observe how they think and speak and behave; is that it?”

“Exactly, and just like a play, it is often exciting or amusing. I find sitting somewhere peaceful without a pen in hand; or, better still, walking, are good ways to imagine how the story might proceed. I visualize various conversations or incidents, often several times over; each time developing differently, until I am satisfied.”

“Thank you, I shall try it. If I have some success and produce something with which I feel sufficiently satisfied, would you be kind enough to look at it, just to give me your opinion?”

“Certainly, I will be most happy to oblige you – and interested, to see what your fascinating mind creates.”

“You are most kind to me. I am so glad we are friends; but there is one thing.”

“Yes?”

“You called me an ‘extraordinary beauty' before. You must not speak so. Please do not flatter me; you must promise to be always honest and truthful,” said Georgiana very seriously.

Despite her seriousness, James Darlington could not help but laugh. “Pray excuse my laughter, it is just that young ladies, in general, go to great lengths to provoke the admiration and compliments of gentlemen – whereas you wish for the very opposite. I am curious to know how you get on with your brother. He is such a proper and traditional sort of gentleman.”

“It is true that he used to be much as you describe it; but since marrying Elizabeth, he has become somewhat less conventional; but more importantly, he has come to admire and appreciate the value of originality in his wife.”

“Yes, she is indeed unique,” said Darlington reflectively. “But tell me honestly: do you really not consider yourself beautiful?”

“No, of course not. Handsome, I believe, is the appropriate classification. I am not really beautiful – not like Elizabeth or Jane Bingley – or your sister, Julia. They are all of them, very beautiful ladies, but not I,” she said decidedly.

“And has no one ever said to you that you are beautiful?”

“Yes, of course, people are always saying it. But it is just to be polite or encouraging. I never take such pleasantries seriously.”

“A person's appearance changes over time, and often rapidly at your time of life. Seeing them each day, we often barely notice the changes, and rather see the old image we have of them fixed in our mind. The same is true of our own selves, looking at our reflection in the mirror each day. Whereas, those who see us but infrequently, are far more apt to notice the changes.”

“You last saw me twelve months ago; do you find me much altered?”

“Indeed I do. You have blossomed from a handsome young lady into a beautiful young woman.”

“Do you speak completely honestly, without flattery?” asked Georgiana; curious, but not the least bit embarrassed.

“I do.”

“But I am not really beautiful – not like Elizabeth, am I? Please be honest.”

He thought for a while before answering. “Before today, I would have said no, you are not as beautiful as she. But now… I think you are.” Georgiana said nothing, she appeared puzzled.

“True beauty lies not in the external surface alone; it also involves the spirit that lies within, that animates a person; that shines from the eyes, shapes the lips, forms the face, and moves the body. But more than this, the true appreciation of another requires an understanding… an intimacy, if you will.”

“Beauty, as the age-old adage goes, is in the eye of the, beholder?” she conjectured.

“Our entire world is in the eye of the beholder – our own eye – or mind, more rightly.”

“You have tricked me; instead of answering my question, you have said simply that there is no objective answer,” she complained.

“That is true. But I did give you my subjective answer: I find you very beautiful.”

Georgiana had no reply to make; she was perfectly satisfied. Had she examined her thoughts more deeply, she might have asked herself why the estimation of the world mattered not to her, but that of the gentleman presently before her had come to matter a great deal.

James Darlington worked silently to complete the portrait as he marvelled over their conversation. Before either of them spoke again, Elizabeth returned and immediately surveyed his work. She admired it in rapt silence for a long time before saying. “Mr Darlington, to my untrained eye, it appears that you have indeed surpassed your previous mark.”

Georgiana rose from her chair and stood beside Elizabeth to survey the work. She seemed struck dumb, as she stared at the portrait shaking her head slightly from side to side.

“It not only portrays Georgiana's delicate beauty,” commented Elizabeth, “but it somehow conveys so many aspects of her character. It is unfathomable how you achieved this on so slight an acquaintance.”

“Oh, Mr Darlington and I are by this time very well acquainted,” replied Georgiana. “We have been talking together the whole morning, and yet… I see aspects of myself in this painting about which we did not talk – moods and feelings for which I hardly have words. How did you accomplish this feat, sir?”

James Darlington smiled, but made no reply.

“If I recall correctly, Mr Darlington, when you painted me, you said: ‘You have somehow inspired me to a greater art than I have ever before attained.' It would seem that great inspiration has visited you a second time,” said Elizabeth with a sly smile.