I
allowed Mr. and Mrs. Tresfarwin to go for their holiday only
yesterday, and the cellars, of course, are never touched."
"Your claret was excellent," Wingrave assured her.
"I am quite sure," Miss Harrison said, "that claret from the local
grocer is not what you are accustomed to--"
"My dear madam," Wingrave protested, "I seldom touch wine. Show me
which picture it is, Juliet, that you--ah!"
She had led him to the end of the gallery and stopped before what
seemed to be a plain oak cupboard surrounded by a massive frame. She
looked at him half fearfully.
"You want to see that picture?" he asked.
"If I might."
He drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and calmly selected one. It
was a little rusty, but the cupboard turned at once on its hinges. A
woman's face smiled down upon them, dark and splendid, from the
glowing touch of a great painter. Juliet studied it eagerly, and then
stole a sidelong glance at the man by her side. He was surveying it
critically and without any apparent emotion.
"Herkomer's, I think," he remarked. "Quite one of his best."
"It is your mother?" she whispered.
He nodded.
"I'm not great at genealogy," he said, "but I can go as far back as
that. She was by way of being a great lady, the daughter of the Duke
of Warminster."
"You were an only son," she said softly. "She must have been very fond
of you."
"Customary thing, I suppose," he remarked.
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