A wave of colour surged over Roberta’s face as she picked up the picture to examine it.  She had never thought again of the shot he had snapped; he had never brought it to her.  Instead he had put it into this frame—­she noted the frame, of carved ivory and choice beyond question—­and had placed it upon his desk.  There were no other photograph’s of people in the room, not one.  If she had found herself one among many she might have had more—­or less—­reason for displeasure; it was hard to say which.  But to be the only one!  Yet doubtless—­in his bedroom, the most intimate place of all, which she was not to see, would be found his real treasures—­photographs of beauties he had known, married women, girls, actresses—­She caught herself up!

Rosamond, eager over the colour-drawing, had taken it from its place on the wall and gone with it across the hall to discuss its extraordinary likeness with the old man, who had sent for little Gordon several times during his stay at the Gray home and would be sure to appreciate the resemblance.  Roberta, again engaged with the portrait above the desk, had not noticed her sister’s departure.  There was something peculiarly fascinating about this pictured face of Richard Kendrick’s mother.  Whether it was the illusive likeness to the son, showing first in the eyes, then in the mouth, which was one of extraordinary sweetness, it was hard to tell.  But the attempt to analyze it was absorbing.

The sound of a quick step in the outer room, as it struck a bit of bare floor between the costly rugs which lay thickly upon it, arrested her attention.  That was not Rosy’s step!  Roberta turned, a sudden fear upon her, and saw the owner of the room standing, as if surprised out of power to proceed, in the doorway.

Now, it was manifestly impossible for Roberta to know just how she looked, standing there, as he had seen her for the instant before she turned.  From her head to her feet she was dressed in white, therefore against the dull background of books and heavy, plain panelling above, her figure stood out with the effect of a cameo.  Her dusky hair under her white hat-brim was the only shadowing in a picture which was to his gaze all light and radiance.  He stood staring at it, his own face glowing.  Then: 

“Oh—­Roberta!” he exclaimed, under his breath.  Then he came forward, both hands outstretched.  She let him have one of hers for an instant, but drew it away again—­with some difficulty.

“You must be surprised to find me here.”  Roberta strove for her usual cool control.  “Rosy and I came to see your grandfather.  He sent us in here to look at these portraits.  Rosy has gone back to him with a picture she thought looked like Gordon.  I—­was staying a minute to see this; it is very beautiful.”