her first-born! And he had her
here in the place of honour above his desk, where he sat to write and
read. For he did read, she grew sure of it as she looked about her.
Though the room was obviously looked after by a servant, it was probable
that there were orders not to touch the contents of the desk-top itself,
for this was as if it had been lately used. Books, a foreign review or
two, a pile of letters, various desk furnishings in a curious design of
wrought copper, and--what was this?--a little photograph in a frame!
Horses, three of them, saddled and tied to a fence; at one side, in an
attitude of arrested attention, a girl's figure in riding dress.

A wave of colour surged over Roberta's face as she picked up the picture
to examine it. She had never thought again of the shot he had snapped;
he had never brought it to her. Instead he had put it into this
frame--she noted the frame, of carved ivory and choice beyond
question--and had placed it upon his desk. There were no other
photograph's of people in the room, not one. If she had found herself
one among many she might have had more--or less--reason for displeasure;
it was hard to say which. But to be the only one! Yet doubtless--in his
bedroom, the most intimate place of all, which she was not to see, would
be found his real treasures--photographs of beauties he had known,
married women, girls, actresses--She caught herself up!

Rosamond, eager over the colour-drawing, had taken it from its place on
the wall and gone with it across the hall to discuss its extraordinary
likeness with the old man, who had sent for little Gordon several times
during his stay at the Gray home and would be sure to appreciate the
resemblance. Roberta, again engaged with the portrait above the desk,
had not noticed her sister's departure. There was something peculiarly
fascinating about this pictured face of Richard Kendrick's mother.
Whether it was the illusive likeness to the son, showing first in the
eyes, then in the mouth, which was one of extraordinary sweetness, it
was hard to tell. But the attempt to _analyze_ it was absorbing.

The sound of a quick step in the outer room, as it struck a bit of bare
floor between the costly rugs which lay thickly upon it, arrested her
attention. That was not Rosy's step! Roberta turned, a sudden fear upon
her, and saw the owner of the room standing, as if surprised out of
power to proceed, in the doorway.

Now, it was manifestly impossible fo