d of
voices and laughter long after it itself had become an indistinguishable
speck in the gleaming water, wished himself one of the crew. But as
fate had ordained otherwise he retreated to his piano, and succeeded in
irritating Captain Oliphant considerably by his brilliant execution,
vocal and instrumental, of some of his favourite pieces.

The day, however, was too hot even for music, and after an hour's
practice Mr Armstrong gave it up and took a book.

But that was dull, and he tried to write some letters. Worse and worse.
The place was stifling, and the pen almost melted in his hand.

What was the matter with him? Why did he feel so down, so lonely.
Surely he could exist a day without his pupil, whatever the temperature.
Perhaps he had his doubts about the boy's success in the coming
examination. No; he fancied that would be all right. He would try a
stroll in the park. It could not at least be hotter under the trees
than in the house.

Across the passage a door stood wide open--a familiar door, through
which he caught sight of a familiar easel on the floor, and over the
fireplace one or two familiar Indian knick-knacks. He couldn't help
stopping a moment to peep in. It seemed cooler in there. What was the
picture on the easel? Might he not just look? A view of the park, with
the sea beyond-pretty, but--no, not as good as it might be. Landscape
was not this artist's strong point. Ah, there was a portrait on the
mantelpiece. That promised better. Why, it was the identical boy's
portrait that had once hung in the old squire's library. No--it was a
copy, but an extraordinary copy, as if the original had suddenly lived
while it was being made. Mr Armstrong had rarely seen a portrait which
looked so like speaking and breathing. The original in Roger's room was
weak compared with this. And in front of it stood a glass with a rose,
whose petals leaned over and just touched the canvas--

Mr Armstrong, feeling very guilty, beat a hasty retreat into the hot
passage and made his way down-stairs. He was a little jealous of that
portrait, perched there in that cool room, with the sweet rose in front
of it.

"Going out?" said Captain Oliphant in the hall. The Captain, by the
way, had taken to being civil to his co-trustee, much to Mr Armstrong's
annoyance, "Warm, isn't it?"

"Yes," said he.

"Beautiful day for those young people."

"Beautiful," said the tutor.

As he spoke, he casually tapped t