The bag yielded up some bills and a solitary letter, addressed in Isobel’s looped and curly writing.  It was not an easy hand to read, and Lady Gertrude produced her pince-nez to assist in deciphering it.  For the most part it dealt with small incidents of her visit and dutiful enquiries concerning the progress of estate and domestic affairs at the Hall during her absence.  But just before the end—­where it might linger longest in the memory—­came a paragraph which riveted Lady Gertrude’s attention.

“And how about Nan’s portrait?” Isobel had written.  “I suppose by this time it is finished and adorning the picture gallery?  That is, if Roger has really succeeded in persuading Mr. Rooke to part with it.  It certainly ought to be an exceptional portrait, judging by the length of time it has taken to accomplish!  Dear Aunt Gertrude, I cannot help thinking it was a mistake that Nan didn’t give Mr. Rooke the sittings at his studio in town or, better still, have waited until after her marriage.  People in the country are so apt to be censorious, aren’t they?  And there has been a good deal of comment on the matter, I know.  I didn’t wish to worry you about it, but I feel you and Roger really ought to know this.”

“Letter from Isobel, mother?  What’s her news?”

Roger came striding into the room exactly as Lady Gertrude finished the perusal of her niece’s epistle.  She looked up with eyes that gleamed like hard, bright pebbles behind her pince-nez.

“The kind of news to which I fear we shall have to grow accustomed,” she said acidly.  “It appears that Nan is getting herself talked about in connection with that artist who is painting her portrait.”

By the time she had finished speaking Roger’s face was like a thundercloud.

“What do you mean?  What does Isobel say?” he demanded.

“You had better read the letter for yourself,” replied his mother, pushing it towards him.

He snatched it up and read it hastily, then stood silently staring at it, his face white with anger, his eyes as hard as Lady Gertrude’s own.

“It’s a great pity you ever met Nan Davenant,” pursued his mother, breaking the silence.  “There’s bad blood in the Davenants, and Nan will probably create a scandal for us one day.  I understand she strongly resembles her notorious great-grandmother, Angele de Varincourt.”

“My wife will lead a very different kind of life from Angele de Varincourt,” remarked Roger.  “I’ll see to that.”

“It’s a pity you didn’t look nearer home for a wife, Roger,” she observed.  “I always hoped you would learn to care for Isobel.”

“Isobel!”—­with blank amazement.  “I do care for her—­she’s a jolly good sort—­but not in that way.  Besides, she doesn’t care for me in the slightest—­except in a sisterly fashion.”

“Are you sure of that?  Remember, you’ve never asked her the question.”  And with this final thrust, Lady Gertrude left him to his thoughts.