wall opposite
the window, through which a chill dawn was just beginning to penetrate,
stood a fine _armoire_ of carved Norman work. Faversham went to look at
it, and vaguely opened one of its drawers.

There was something at the back of the drawer, a picture, apparently an
old photograph, lying face downward. He drew it out, and looked at it.

He beheld a young and rather pretty woman, with a curiously flat head,
staring black eyes, and sharp chin. She had a child on her knee of about
a year old, an elf with delicately proud features, and a frowning,
passionate look.

Who were they? The photograph was stained with age and damp; deep, too,
in dust. From the woman's dress it must be a good many years old.

The answer suggested itself at once. He was now inhabiting Mrs. Melrose's
room, which, according to Mrs. Dixon, had been closed for years, from the
date of her flight. The photograph must have been hers; the child was
hers--and Melrose's! The likeness indeed cried out.

He replaced the photograph, his mind absorbed in the excitement of its
discovery. Where were they now--the forlorn pair? He had no doubt
whatever that they were alive--at the old man's mercy, somewhere.

He let in the dawn, and stood long in thought beside the open window. But
in the end, he satisfied himself. He would find a way of meeting all just
claims, when the time arrived. Why not?

BOOK III

XIII

When Delorme left Duddon, carrying with him a huge full-length of
Victoria, which must, Victoria felt, entirely cut her off from London
during the ensuing spring and summer--for it was to go into the Academy,
and on no account could she bear to find herself in the same room with
it--he left behind him a cordial invitation to the "little painting girl"
to come and work in his Somersetshire studio--where he was feverishly
busy with a great commission for an American town-hall for the remainder
of August and September. Such invitations were extraordinarily coveted;
and Lydia, "advanced" as she was, should have been jubilant. She accepted
for her art's sake; but no one could have called her jubilant.

Mrs. Penfold, who for some weeks had been in a state of nervous and
rather irritable mystification with regard to Lydia, noticed the fact at
once. She consulted Susy.

"I can't make her out!" said the mother plaintively. "Oh, Susy, do you
know what's been going on? Lydia has been at Duddon at least six times
this last fortnight--and