They trooped out of the room and into the studio, where several other people, who had already examined the great portrait, were still strolling about looking at various paintings and sketches.

It was a big bare barn of a place with its cold north light, for Rooke, sybarite as he was in other respects, treated his work from a Spartan standpoint which permitted necessities only in his studio.

"Empty great barrack, isn't it?" he said to Nan. "But I can't bear to be crowded up with extraneous hangings and draperies like some fellows.

It stifles me."

She nodded sympathetically.

"I know. I like an empty music-room."

"You still work? Ah, that's good. You shall tell me about it--afterwards--when this crowd has gone. Oh, Nan, there'll be such a lot to say!"

His glance held her a moment, and she flushed under it. Those queer eyes of his had lost none of their old magnetic power. He turned away with a short, amused laugh, and the next moment was listening courteously to an elderly d.u.c.h.ess's gushing eulogy of his work.

Nan remained quietly where she was, gazing at the big picture of the famous American beauty. It was a fine piece of work; the lights and shadows had been handled magnificently, and it was small wonder that the man who could produce such work had leaped into the foremost rank of portrait-painters. She felt very glad of his success, remembering how bitter he had been in former days over his failure to obtain recognition. She turned and, finding him beside her again, spoke her thought quite simply.

"You've made good at last, Maryon. You've no grudge against the world now."

He looked down at her oddly.

"Haven't I? . . . Well, you should know," he replied.

She gave a little impatient twist of her shoulders. He hadn't altered at all, it seemed; he still possessed his old faculty for implying so much more than was contained in the actual words he spoke.

"Most people would be content with the success you've gained," she answered steadily.

"Most people--yes. But to gain the gold and miss . . . the rainbow!--_A quoi bon_?"

His voice vibrated. This sudden meeting with Nan was trying him hard.

There had been two genuine things in the man's life--his love for Nan and his love of his art. He had thrust the first deliberately aside so that he might not be handicapped in the second, and now that the race was won and success a.s.sured he was face to face with the realisation of the price that must be paid. Nan was out of his reach for ever.

Standing here at his side with all her old elusive charm--out of his reach!

"What did you mean"--she was speaking to him again--"by telling Penny that you expected to see me soon--before she would?"

"Ah, that's my news. Of course, when I wrote, I thought you were still down in Cornwall, with the Trenbys. I'd no idea you were coming up to town just now."

"I'm up unexpectedly," murmured Nan. "Well? What then?"

He smiled, as though enjoying his secret.

"Isn't Burnham Court somewhere in your direction?"

"Yes. It's about midway between the Hall and Mallow Court. It belonged to a Sir Robert Burnham who's just died. Why do you ask?"

"Because Burnham was my G.o.dfather. The old chap disapproved of me strongly at one time--thought painting pictures a fool's job. But since luck came my way, his opinion apparently altered, and when he died he left me all his property--Burnham Court included."

"Burnham Court!" exclaimed Nan in astonishment.

"Yes. Droll, isn't it? So I thought of coming down some time this spring and seeing how it feels to be a land-owner. My wife is taking a trip to the States then--to visit some friends."

"How nice!" Nan's exclamation was quite spontaneous. It would be nice to have another of her own kind--one of her mental kith and kin--near at hand after she was married.

"I shan't be down there all the time, of course, but for week-ends and so on--in the intervals between transferring commonplace faces, and still more frequently commonplace souls, to canvas." He paused, then asked suddenly: "So you're glad, Nan?"

"Of course I am," she answered heartily. "It will be like old times."

"Unfortunately, old times never--come back," he said shortly.

And then a quaint, drumming noise like the sound of a distant tom-tom summoned them to tea.

Most of the visitors took their departure soon afterwards, but Nan and the Fentons lingered on, returning to the studio to enjoy the mult.i.tude of sketches and studies stored away there, many of them carelessly stacked up with their faces to the wall. Rooke made a delightful host, pulling out one canvas after another and pouring out a stream of amusing little tales concerning the oddities of various sitters.

Presently the door opened and the maid ushered in yet another visitor.

Nan, standing rather apart by one of the bay windows at the far end of the room, was examining a rough sketch, in black and white. She caught her breath suddenly at the sound of the newcomer's voice.

"I couldn't get here earlier, as I promised, Rooke, and I'm afraid the daylight's gone. However, I've no doubt Mrs. Van Decken will look equally charming by artificial light. In fact, I should have said it was her natural element."

Nan, screened from the remainder of the room by the window embrasure, let the sketch she was holding flutter to the ground.

The quiet, drawling voice was Peter's! And he didn't know she was here! It would be horrible--horrible to meet him suddenly like this . . . here . . . in the presence of other people.

She pressed herself closely against the wall of the recess, her breath coming gaspingly between parched lips. The mere tones of his voice, with their lazy, distinctive drawl, set her heart beating in great suffocating leaps. She had never dreamed of the possibility of meeting him--here, of all places, and the knowledge that only a few yards separated them from one another, that if she stepped out from the alcove which screened her she would be face to face with him, drained her of all strength.

She stood there motionless, her back to the wall, her palms pressed rigidly against its surface.

Was he coming towards here? . . . Now? It seemed hours since his voice had first struck upon her ears.

At last, after what appeared an infinity of time, she heard the hum of talk and laughter drift out of the room . . . the sound of footsteps retreating . . . the closing of a door.

Her stiff muscles relaxed and, leaning forward, she peered into the studio. It was empty. They had all gone, and with a sigh of relief she stepped out from her hiding-place.

She wandered aimlessly about for a minute or two, then came to anchor in front of Mrs. T. Van Decken's portrait. With a curious sense of detachment, she fell to criticising it afresh. It had been painted with amazing skill and insight. All the beauty was there, the exquisite tinting of flesh, the beautiful curve of cheek and throat and shoulder. But, behind the lovely physical presentment, Nan felt she could detect the woman's soul--predatory, feline, and unscrupulous. It was rather original of Maryon to have done that, she thought--painted both body and spirit--and it was just like that cynical cleverness of his to have discerned so exactly the soulless type of woman which the beautiful body concealed and to have insolently reproduced it, daring discovery.

She looked up and found him standing beside her. She had not heard the quiet opening and closing of the door.

"An old friend of yours has just come in to see my Van Decken," he said quietly. His eyes were slightly quizzical.

Nan turned her face a little aside.

"I know. Where--where is he?"

"I took him along to have some tea. I've left him with the Fentons; they can prepare him for the . . . shock."

She flushed angrily.

"Maryon! You're outrageous!" she protested.