e to recover herself a little.

"I tell you what it is, Nan," he said with rough kindness. "You've
overdone it a bit working at that concerto, and instead of giving
yourself a holiday, you've been tiring yourself still more by sitting
for your portrait. You may find Rooke mentally refreshing if you like,
but posing for him hour after hour is a confounded strain, physically.
Now, you take your good Uncle Sandy's advice and let the portrait slide
for a bit. You might occupy yourself by making arrangements for the
production of the concerto."

"I don't feel any interest in it," she said slowly. "It's funny, isn't
it, Sandy? I was so keen about it when I was writing it. And now I
think it's rotten."

"It isn't," said Sandy. "It's good stuff, Nan. Anyone would tell you
so."

"Do you think so?" she replied, without enthusiasm.

He regarded her with an expression of anxiety.

"Oh, you mustn't drop the concerto," he protested. "That's always been
your trick, Nan, to go so far and no further."

"It's a very good rule to follow--in some things," she replied
enigmatically.

"Well, look here, will you hand the manuscript over to me and let me
show it to someone?"

"No, I won't," she said with decision. "I hate the concerto now. It
has--it has unpleasant associations. Let it rest in oblivion."

He shrugged his shoulders in despair.

"You're the most aggravating woman I know," he remarked irritably.

In an instant Nan was her own engaging self once more. It was
instinctive with her to try and charm away an atmosphere of disapproval.

"Don't say that, Sandy," she replied, making a beseeching little
_moue_. "You know it would be awfully boring if I always did just
exactly what you were expecting me to do. It's better to be
aggravating than--dull!"

Sandy smiled. Nan was always quite able to make her peace with him
when she chose to.

"Well, no one can complain that you're dull," he acknowledged.

CHAPTER XXXI

TOWARDS UNKNOWN WAYS

The afternoon post had just been delivered and the postman was already
whizzing his way down the drive on his scarlet-painted bicycle as Lady
Gertrude unlocked the private post-bag appertaining to Trenby Hall.
This was one of the small jobs usually delegated to her niece, but for
once the latter was away on holiday, staying with friends at Penzance.

The bag yielded up some bills and a solitary letter, addressed in
Isobel's looped and curly writing. It was not