“I was afraid, Gerald; afraid,” he said, “thinking it unseemly that a man of my years should be so shaken with love—­while your strong youth had gone unscathed.  Did I not seem ill at ease?”

“I thought that your lordship disliked the subject,” Osmonde answered, remembering well.  “Once I thought you pale.”

“Yes, yes,” said my lord.  “I felt my colour change at the cruel picture my Lord Twemlow painted—­of her hunted helplessness if harm befell her.”

“She would not be helpless,” said Osmonde.  “Nothing would make her so.”

Her lord looked up at him with brightened eye.

“True—­true!” he said.  “At times, Gerald, I think perhaps you know her better than I. More than once your chance speech of her has shown so clear a knowledge.  ’Tis because your spirit is like to her own.”

Osmonde arose and went to a cabinet, which he unlocked.

“I have hid here,” he said, “somewhat which I must show you.  It should be yours—­or hers—­and has a story.”

As his eyes fell upon that his kinsman brought forth his lordship uttered an exclamation.  ’Twas the picture of his lady, stolen before her marriage by the drunken painter.

“It is herself,” he exclaimed, “herself, though so roughly done.”

My lord Duke stood a little apart out of the range of his vision and related the history of the canvas.  He had long planned that he would do the thing, and therefore did it.  All the plans he had made for his future conduct he had carried out without flinching.  There had been hours when he had been like a man who held his hand in a brazier, but he had shown no sign.  The canvas had been his companion so long that to send it from him would be almost as though he thrust forth herself while she held her deep eyes fixed upon him.  But he told the story of the garret and the drunken painter, in well-chosen words.

“’Twas but like you, Gerald,” my lord said with gratitude.  “Few other men would have shown such noble carefulness for a wild beauty they scarce knew.  I—­will leave it with you.”

“You—­will leave it!” answered my lord Duke his pulse quickening.  “I did not hope for such generosity.”

His lordship smiled affectionately.  “Yes, ’tis generous,” he returned.  “I would be so generous with no other man.  Kneller paints her for me now, full length, in her Court bravery and with all her diamonds blazing on her.  ’Twill be a splendid canvas.  And lest you should think me too ready to give this away, I will tell you that I feel the story of the rascal painter would displease her.  She hath too high a spirit not to be fretted at the thought of being the unconscious tool of a drunken vagabond.”

“Yes, it will anger her,” Osmonde said, and ended with a sudden smiling.  “Yet I could not keep hidden the beauties of my kinsman’s lady, and must tell him.”

So the matter ended with friendly smiles and kindliness, and the picture was laid back within the cabinet until such time as it should be framed and hung.