Isobel reddened and her mouth took on a somewhat disagreeable expression.

“Then Nan must be an unusually difficult subject, mustn’t she, Roger?  Why, you’ve been at it two weeks and have literally nothing to show for it!  You want speeding up.”

Meanwhile Roger had been regarding the sketches in silence, an uneasy feeling of dissatisfaction stirring in his mind.

“Yes,” he said slowly.  “You don’t seem to have made much progress.”  And his eyes travelled rather sombrely from Nan’s face to that of the artist.

“You must have a little patience, Trenby,” replied Rooke pleasantly.  “The start is the difficult part.  Tell me”—­placing a couple of sketches on the easel as he spoke—­“which of those two poses do you like the better?”

For the moment Roger’s thoughts, slowly moving towards a vague suspicion, were directed into another channel, precisely as Rooke had intended they should be, and he examined the sketches carefully.  Finally he gave his opinion with surprisingly good judgment.

“That’s Nan,” he said, indicating one of them—­the last of the afternoon’s efforts.

“Yes,” agreed Rooke.  “That’s my choice.”  Then, turning laughingly to Nan, he went on:  “The die is cast.  To-morrow we’ll begin work in good earnest.”

“To-morrow?” broke in Isobel.  “Oh, Roger, you mustn’t let him take possession of Nan to-morrow!  We’re all motoring over to Denleigh Abbey for lunch, and the Peabodys will think it most odd if Nan doesn’t come.”

“The Peabodys?” queried Rooke.  “Are those the ‘new rich’ people who’ve bought the Abbey?”

“Yes.  And they want us all to go—­Mrs. Peabody made a special point of it the other day.  She asked everyone from Mallow as well as ourselves.”

“What extensive hospitality!” murmured Rooke.

“They’re quite nice people,” asserted Isobel defiantly.

“Dear lady, they must indeed be overflowing with the milk of human kindness—­and Treasury notes.”

Isobel’s bird-like eyes gleamed maliciously.

“They want to hear Nan play,” she persisted.

“And to see me paint?” he suggested ironically.

She ignored his retort and, turning to Nan, appealed to her directly.

“Shan’t you come?” she asked bluntly.

“Well, if Maryon wants me to sit for him—­” Nan began hesitatingly.

“The sooner the portrait’s begun, the sooner it will be finished,” interposed Rooke.  “Can’t you dispense with your fiancee to-morrow, Trenby? . . .  But just as you like, of course,” he added courteously.

Roger hesitated.  The frank appeal was disarming, shaking the suspicion he was harbouring.

“Let’s leave it like this,” continued Rooke, following up his advantage.  “If the light’s good, you’ll let me have Nan, but if it’s a dull day she shall be swept into the gilded portals of the Peabodys.”

“Very well,” agreed Roger, rather reluctantly.