She wandered aimlessly about for a minute or two, then came to anchor in front of Mrs. T. Van Decken’s portrait.  With a curious sense of detachment, she fell to criticising it afresh.  It had been painted with amazing skill and insight.  All the beauty was there, the exquisite tinting of flesh, the beautiful curve of cheek and throat and shoulder.  But, behind the lovely physical presentment, Nan felt she could detect the woman’s soul—­predatory, feline, and unscrupulous.  It was rather original of Maryon to have done that, she thought—­painted both body and spirit—­and it was just like that cynical cleverness of his to have discerned so exactly the soulless type of woman which the beautiful body concealed and to have insolently reproduced it, daring discovery.

She looked up and found him standing beside her.  She had not heard the quiet opening and closing of the door.

“An old friend of yours has just come in to see my Van Decken,” he said quietly.  His eyes were slightly quizzical.

Nan turned her face a little aside.

“I know.  Where—­where is he?”

“I took him along to have some tea.  I’ve left him with the Fentons; they can prepare him for the . . . shock.”

She flushed angrily.

“Maryon!  You’re outrageous!” she protested.

“I imagined.  I was showing great consideration, seeing I’ve no cause to bear Mallory any overwhelming goodwill.”

“I thought you had only met him once or twice?”

Rooke looked down at her with an odd expression.

“True—­in the old days, only once.  At your flat.  But we’ve knocked up against each other several times since then.  And Mrs. Van Decken asked him to come and see her portrait.”

“You and he can have very little in common,” observed Nan carelessly.

“Nothing”—­promptly—­“except the links of art.  I’ve always been true in my art—­if in nothing else.  Besides, all’s grist that comes to Mallory’s mill.  He regards me as a type.  Ah!”—­as the door opened once more—­“here they come.”

Her throat contracted with nervousness and she felt that it would be a physical impossibility for her to speak.  She turned mechanically as Penelope re-entered the room, followed by her husband and Peter Mallory.  Uppermost in Nan’s mind was the thought, to which she clung as to a sheet-anchor, that of the three witnesses to this meeting between Peter and herself, the Fentons were ignorant of the fact that she cared for him, and Maryon, whatever he might suspect, had no certain knowledge.

The dreaded ordeal was quickly over.  A simple handshake, and in a few moments they were all five chatting together, Mrs. Van Decken’s portrait prominent in the conversation.

Mallory had altered in some indefinable way.  In the fugitive glances she stole at him Nan could see that he was thinner, his face a trifle worn-looking, and the old whimsical light had died out of his eyes, replaced by a rather bitter sadness.