He s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and read it hastily, then stood silently staring at it, his face white with anger, his eyes as hard as Lady Gertrude's own.

"It's a great pity you ever met Nan Davenant," pursued his mother, breaking the silence. "There's bad blood in the Davenants, and Nan will probably create a scandal for us one day. I understand she strongly resembles her notorious great-grandmother, Angele de Varincourt."

"My wife will lead a very different kind of life from Angele de Varincourt," remarked Roger. "I'll see to that."

"It's a pity you didn't look nearer home for a wife, Roger," she observed. "I always hoped you would learn to care for Isobel."

"Isobel!"--with blank amazement. "I do care for her--she's a jolly good sort--but not in that way. Besides, she doesn't care for me in the slightest--except in a sisterly fashion."

"Are you sure of that? Remember, you've never asked her the question."

And with this final thrust, Lady Gertrude left him to his thoughts.

No doubt, later on, the thought of Isobel in the new light presented by his mother would recur to his mind, but for the moment he was entirely preoccupied with the matter of Nan's portrait and his determination to put an end to the sittings.

It would be quite easy, he decided. The only thing that stood in the way of his immediately carrying out his plan, was the fact that he had promised to go away the following morning on a few days' fishing expedition, together with Barry Seymour and the two Fentons. The realisation that Maryon Rooke would probably spend the best part of those few days in Nan's company set the blood pounding furiously through his veins. His decision was taken instantly. The fishing party must go without him.

As a natural sequence to his engagement to Nan he had an open invitation to Mallow, and this evening he availed himself of it by motoring across to dinner there. The question of the fishing party was easily disposed of on the plea of unexpected estate matters which required his supervision. Barry brushed his apologies aside.

"My dear chap, it doesn't matter a sc.r.a.p. We three'll go as arranged and you must join us on our next jaunt. Kitty'll be here to look after Nan," he added, smiling good-naturedly. "She hates fishing--it bores her stiff."

After dinner Roger made an opportunity to broach the matter of the portrait to Nan.

"When's Rooke going to finish that portrait of you?" he asked her.

"He's taking an unconscionable time over it."

She coloured a little under the suspicion she read in his eyes.

"I--I think he'll finish it to-morrow," she stammered. "It's nearly done, you know."

"So I should think. I'll see him about it. I'm going to buy the thing."

"To--to buy it?"--nervously.

"Yes." His keen eyes flashed over her. "Is there anything extraordinary in a man's purchasing the portrait of his future wife?"

"No. Oh, no. Only I don't fancy Maryon painted it with any idea of selling it."

"And I didn't allow you to sit for it with any idea of his keeping it,"

retorted Roger grimly.

Nan remained silent, feeling that further discussion of the matter while he was in his present humour would serve no purpose. The curt, almost hectoring manner of his speech irritated her, while the jealousy from which it sprang made no appeal to her by way of an excuse, as it might have done had she loved him. She was glad when the evening came to an end, but she was still in a sore and angry frame of mind when she joined Rooke in the music-room the following day.

He speedily divined that something had occurred to ruffle her, and without endeavouring to elicit the cause--possibly he felt he could make a pretty good guess at it!--he set himself to amuse and entertain her. He was so far successful in his efforts that before very long she had almost forgotten her annoyance of the previous evening and was deep in a discussion regarding the work of a certain modern composer.

Engrossed in argument, neither Maryon nor Nan noticed, the hum of a motor approaching up the drive, and when the door of the room was thrown open to admit Roger Trenby neither of them was able to repress a slight start. Instantly a dark look of anger overspread Roger's face as he advanced into the room.

"Good morning, Rooke," he said, nodding briefly but not offering his hand. "So the portrait is finished at last, I see."

Nan glanced across at him anxiously. There was something in his manner that filled her with a quick sense of apprehension.

"Not quite," replied Rooke easily. "I'm afraid we've been idling this morning. There are still a few more touches I should like to add."

Roger crossed the room, and, standing in front of the picture, surveyed it in silence.

"I think," he said at last, "that I'm satisfied with it as it is. . . .

It will look very well in the gallery at Trenby."

Rooke's eyes narrowed suddenly.

"The portrait isn't for sale," he observed.

"Of course not--to anyone other than myself," replied Roger composedly.

"Not even to you, I'm afraid," answered Rooke. "I painted it for the great pleasure it gave me and not from any mercenary motive."

Nan, watching the two men as they fenced, saw a sudden flash in Roger's eyes and his under jaw thrust itself out in a manner with which she was only too familiar.

"Then may I ask what you intend to do with it?" he demanded. There was something in the dead level of his tone which suggested a white-hot anger forcibly held in leash.

"I thought--with Nan's permission--of exhibiting it first," said Rooke placidly. "After that, there is a wall in my house at Westminster where it would hang in an admirable light."

The cool insolence of his manner acted like a lighted torch to gunpowder. Roger swung round upon him furiously, his hands clenched, his forehead suddenly gnarled with knotted veins.

"By G.o.d, Rooke!" he exclaimed. "You go too far! _You_ will exhibit Nan's portrait . . . _you_ will hang it in your house! . . . And you think I'll stand by and tolerate such impertinence? Understand . . .

Nan's portrait hangs at Trenby Hall--or nowhere!"

Rooke regarded him apparently unmoved.

"I've yet to learn the law which compels a man to part with his work,"

he remarked indifferently.

Roger took an impetuous step towards him, his clenched hand raised as though to strike.

"You hound--" he began hoa.r.s.ely.

Nan rushed between them, catching the upraised hand.

"Roger! . . . Roger!" she cried, her voice shrill with the fear that in another moment the two men would be at grips.

But he shook off her hand, flinging her aside with such force that she staggered helplessly backwards.

"As for you," he thundered, his eyes blazing with concentrated anger, "it's you I've to thank that any man should hold my future wife so cheap as to imagine he may paint her portrait and then keep it in his house as though it were his own! . . . But I'm d.a.m.ned if he shall!"

White and shaken, she leaned against the window frame, clutching at the wood-work for support and staring at him with affrighted eyes as he turned once more to Rooke.

In his big, brawny strength, doubled by the driving force of anger, he seemed to tower above the slim, supple figure of the artist, who stood leaning negligently against the side of the piano, watching him with narrowed eyes and a faintly supercilious smile on his lips.

"Take your choice, Rooke," he said shortly. "My cheque for five hundred and get out of this, or--" He paused significantly.