ctures; we've just time
before tea."

The mention of tea was a master-stroke; it brought them both back to the
world of fact, and restored the familiar landmarks.

Ted, solemnly penitent, gave his best attention to the pictures: there
was not a trace of his former abominable levity in the air with which he
passed sentence on each as Audrey brought them up for judgment. But when
he came to the family portraits he suspended his verdict, and Audrey was
obliged to take the matter into her own hands.

She took up a small picture in a square frame and held it close to Ted's
face.

"Portrait of my uncle, the Dean of St. Benedict's. What shall I do with
it?"

"That depends entirely on the amount of affection you feel for the
original."

"H'm--does it? He's a dear old thing, and I'm very fond of him,
but--what do you think of him?--from an artistic point of view?"

She stood with her body curved a little backwards, holding the Dean up
high in a good light. Her attitude was so lovely that it was impossible
to disapprove of her. Ted's reason tottered on its throne, and he
laughed, which was perhaps the best thing he could have done.

"He is not, strictly speaking, handsome."

"No," said Audrey; "I'm afraid he'll have to go."

She knelt down beside the portrait of a lady. It was evidently the work
of an inferior artist, but his most malignant efforts had failed to
disguise the beauty of the face. It bore a strong resemblance to Audrey,
but it was the face of an older woman, grave, intelligent, and refined
by suffering.

"I've been obliged to take this down," she said, as if apologising more
to herself than Ted, "because I want to hang my large photo of the
Sistine Madonna in its place."

"What is it?"

"It's--my mother's portrait. She died when I was a very little girl, and
I hardly ever saw her, you know. I'm not a bit like her."

He stood silent, watching her intently as she spoke.

"Family portraits," she continued, "may be interesting, but they are not
decorative. Unless, of course," she added, hastily, being at a loss to
account for the peculiar expression of Ted's face, "they're very old
ones--Lelys and Sir Joshua Reynoldses."

"That face does not look old, certainly."

"No. She died young."

She had not meant to say that; a little shiver went through her as the
words passed her lips, and she felt a desire to change the subject. But
the portrait of the late Mrs. Craven was turned to the wall along with