"Oh, I know it was my own fault," he went on. "There was a time, Nan, when I had my chance, wasn't there?"

She hesitated. Then:

"Perhaps there was--once," she acknowledged slowly.

"And I lost it! Well, I've paid for it every day of my life," he said shortly. "And twice a day since your engagement," he added, with one of those odd touches of whimsicality which were liable to cross even his moments of deep feeling, giving a sense of unreality to them--a something insincere.

"To get back to the picture--" suggested Nan.

He laughed.

"We can't get _back_--seeing we've never got there at all yet.

These"--with a gesture to the various sketches littering the lawn--"are merely preliminary. When I begin the portrait itself, we'll retire indoors. I think the music-room here will answer the purpose of a studio very well."

"Two whole weeks!" observed Nan meditatively. "I fancy Roger will be somewhat surprised that progress is so slow."

"Trenby? Pooh! It's not his picture. I shall have to explain to him"--smiling--"that art is long."

"He'll get fidgety about it. You see, already we've stayed at home several times when the others have arranged a picnic expedition."

"Choosing the better part," he retorted. "I should like to make one more attempt this afternoon, if you're not too tired. See, your arms . . . so! And I want your face the least bit tilted."

He put his hand very gently beneath her chin, posing her head as he wished it. For a moment he held her so, her face cupped in his hand, while his hazel eyes stared down at her with a smouldering fire in their depths.

Slowly the hot colour crept into her face beneath his scrutiny.

"Maryon!" Her lips moved protestingly.

"I think you've got the shortest upper lip of any woman I know," he said, calmly releasing her and going back to his easel. "And women with short upper lips are the very devil."

He sketched rapidly for a time.

Her pose at the moment was practically perfect--the small head tilted a little on the long round throat, while the slanting rays of the sun turned the dusky hair into a shadowy, gold-flecked nimbus.

Rooke worked on in silence, though once as he looked across at her he caught his underlip suddenly betwixt his teeth. She was so utterly desirable--the curve of her cheek, the grace of her lissom body, the faint blue veins that showed beneath the warm, ivory skin. And she was going to be Trenby's wife!

"There!" he said abruptly. "That's the idea at last. Tomorrow we'll begin the portrait itself."

Nan rose, stretching her arms above her head.

"I'm sure I shall die of fatigue, Maryon," she observed, coming round to his side to inspect the sketch.

"Nonsense! I shall allow due intervals for rest and--mental refreshment. What do you think of it?"

"I look rather--attractive"--impertinently.

"You do. Only I could suggest a subst.i.tute for the word 'rather.'"

Her eyes defied him.

"Could you? . . . What would it be?"

Before he could make any answer, there came a sound of voices close at hand, and a minute later Trenby and Isobel Carson appeared from round the corner of a high box hedge.

"We've been farming," announced Isobel. "I've been looking at Roger's prize sheep and cattle. I mean"--with a laughing, upward glance at her companion--"at the ones that are _going_ to be his prize sheep and cattle as soon as they come under the judged eye. Then we thought we'd motor across and inspect the portrait. How's it going, Mr. Rooke?"

"The portrait isn't yet begun, Miss Carson," he replied blandly.

"It seems to take a long time to get under way," she retorted. "Is it so difficult to make a start? Surely not--for the great Mr.

Rooke!"--with delicate mockery.

There was a perpetual warfare between herself and Rooke. She was the kind of woman he cordially detested--the pseudo sporting, outdoor type, with a strong tendency towards the feline--"Neither male nor female created He them," as he had once said. And when Rooke disliked man or woman he took small pains to conceal the fact. Isobel had winced, more than once, under the lash of his caustic tongue.

"I've made a start, Miss Carson, as these sketches testify"--waving his arm towards them. "But some subjects require very much more delicate handling than--others would do." And his half-closed eyes swept her insolently from head to foot.

Isobel reddened and her mouth took on a somewhat disagreeable expression.

"Then Nan must be an unusually difficult subject, mustn't she, Roger?

Why, you've been at it two weeks and have literally nothing to show for it! You want speeding up."

Meanwhile Roger had been regarding the sketches in silence, an uneasy feeling of dissatisfaction stirring in his mind.

"Yes," he said slowly. "You don't seem to have made much progress."

And his eyes travelled rather sombrely from Nan's face to that of the artist.

"You must have a little patience, Trenby," replied Rooke pleasantly.

"The start is the difficult part. Tell me"--placing a couple of sketches on the easel as he spoke--"which of those two poses do you like the better?"

For the moment Roger's thoughts, slowly moving towards a vague suspicion, were directed into another channel, precisely as Rooke had intended they should be, and he examined the sketches carefully.

Finally he gave his opinion with surprisingly good judgment.

"That's Nan," he said, indicating one of them--the last of the afternoon's efforts.

"Yes," agreed Rooke. "That's my choice." Then, turning laughingly to Nan, he went on: "The die is cast. To-morrow we'll begin work in good earnest."

"To-morrow?" broke in Isobel. "Oh, Roger, you mustn't let him take possession of Nan to-morrow! We're all motoring over to Denleigh Abbey for lunch, and the Peabodys will think it most odd if Nan doesn't come."

"The Peabodys?" queried Rooke. "Are those the 'new rich' people who've bought the Abbey?"

"Yes. And they want us all to go--Mrs. Peabody made a special point of it the other day. She asked everyone from Mallow as well as ourselves."

"What extensive hospitality!" murmured Rooke.

"They're quite nice people," a.s.serted Isobel defiantly.

"Dear lady, they must indeed be overflowing with the milk of human kindness--and Treasury notes."

Isobel's bird-like eyes gleamed maliciously.