He put his hand very gently beneath her chin, posing her head as he wished it.  For a moment he held her so, her face cupped in his hand, while his hazel eyes stared down at her with a smouldering fire in their depths.

Slowly the hot colour crept into her face beneath his scrutiny.

“Maryon!” Her lips moved protestingly.

“I think you’ve got the shortest upper lip of any woman I know,” he said, calmly releasing her and going back to his easel.  “And women with short upper lips are the very devil.”

He sketched rapidly for a time.

Her pose at the moment was practically perfect—­the small head tilted a little on the long round throat, while the slanting rays of the sun turned the dusky hair into a shadowy, gold-flecked nimbus.

Rooke worked on in silence, though once as he looked across at her he caught his underlip suddenly betwixt his teeth.  She was so utterly desirable—­the curve of her cheek, the grace of her lissom body, the faint blue veins that showed beneath the warm, ivory skin.  And she was going to be Trenby’s wife!

“There!” he said abruptly.  “That’s the idea at last.  Tomorrow we’ll begin the portrait itself.”

Nan rose, stretching her arms above her head.

“I’m sure I shall die of fatigue, Maryon,” she observed, coming round to his side to inspect the sketch.

“Nonsense!  I shall allow due intervals for rest and—­mental refreshment.  What do you think of it?”

“I look rather—­attractive”—­impertinently.

“You do.  Only I could suggest a substitute for the word ‘rather.’”

Her eyes defied him.

“Could you? . . .  What would it be?”

Before he could make any answer, there came a sound of voices close at hand, and a minute later Trenby and Isobel Carson appeared from round the corner of a high box hedge.

“We’ve been farming,” announced Isobel.  “I’ve been looking at Roger’s prize sheep and cattle.  I mean”—­with a laughing, upward glance at her companion—­“at the ones that are going to be his prize sheep and cattle as soon as they come under the judged eye.  Then we thought we’d motor across and inspect the portrait.  How’s it going, Mr. Rooke?”

“The portrait isn’t yet begun, Miss Carson,” he replied blandly.

“It seems to take a long time to get under way,” she retorted.  “Is it so difficult to make a start?  Surely not—­for the great Mr. Rooke!”—­with delicate mockery.

There was a perpetual warfare between herself and Rooke.  She was the kind of woman he cordially detested—­the pseudo sporting, outdoor type, with a strong tendency towards the feline—­“Neither male nor female created He them,” as he had once said.  And when Rooke disliked man or woman he took small pains to conceal the fact.  Isobel had winced, more than once, under the lash of his caustic tongue.

“I’ve made a start, Miss Carson, as these sketches testify”—­waving his arm towards them.  “But some subjects require very much more delicate handling than—­others would do.”  And his half-closed eyes swept her insolently from head to foot.