re of an uninteresting old man
with several chins, and the small, steel-blue eyes which seem a family
inheritance. This was a celebrated Romney, which had been the subject
of a protracted law-suit between different branches of the family, which
had cost the losing party over a thousand pounds. I thought, but did
not say, that I would have been obliged to anyone who would have taken
him away, free, gratis, for nothing, rather than that he should hang on
my walls. Spoken comment, under the circumstances, was a little
difficult and halting!

"This is the Romney."

"Oh yes."

"My grandfather."

"I see. Yes. How interesting."

He laughed--a short, derisive bark.

"That's the last thing you can call it! A more uninteresting production
I never beheld. What right had he to waste good canvas? That is one
point in which we do show more common sense than our ancestors. We do
not consider it necessary to inflict our portraits on posterity."

"No. We don't. At least--"

He swung round, facing me, with his back to the open drawing-room door,
his face suddenly keen and alert.

"Miss Wastneys--never mind the picture! I brought you out as an excuse.
I wanted to ask--_Whats the matter_?"

The question rapped out, short and sharp. I looked at him, made a big
effort to be bright, and natural, and defiant, and realised suddenly
that I was trembling; that, while my cheeks were hot, my hands were cold
as ice; that, in short, the shock and excitement of the last half-hour
was taking its physical revenge. For two straws I could have burst out
crying there and then. It is a ridiculous feminine weakness to be given
to tears at critical moments, but if you have it, you have it, and so
far I have not discovered a cure. I could have kept going if he had
taken no notice, and gone on talking naturally; but that question
knocked me over, so I just stared at him and gulped, and pressed my
hands together, with that awful, awful sensation which comes over one
when one knows it is madness to give way, and yet feels that the moment
after next you are just going to _do_ it, and nothing can stop you!

I thought of Charmion, sitting calm and quiet in the palm-house; I
thought of that first horrible interview in the inn parlour; I thought
of my heroic ancestors. It was no use; every moment I drew, nearer and
nearer to the breaking-point. I still stared, but the Squire's face was
growing misty, growing into a big, red-brown blur.