. T. Van Decken's portrait. With a curious sense of
detachment, she fell to criticising it afresh. It had been painted
with amazing skill and insight. All the beauty was there, the
exquisite tinting of flesh, the beautiful curve of cheek and throat and
shoulder. But, behind the lovely physical presentment, Nan felt she
could detect the woman's soul--predatory, feline, and unscrupulous. It
was rather original of Maryon to have done that, she thought--painted
both body and spirit--and it was just like that cynical cleverness of
his to have discerned so exactly the soulless type of woman which the
beautiful body concealed and to have insolently reproduced it, daring
discovery.

She looked up and found him standing beside her. She had not heard the
quiet opening and closing of the door.

"An old friend of yours has just come in to see my Van Decken," he said
quietly. His eyes were slightly quizzical.

Nan turned her face a little aside.

"I know. Where--where is he?"

"I took him along to have some tea. I've left him with the Fentons;
they can prepare him for the . . . shock."

She flushed angrily.

"Maryon! You're outrageous!" she protested.

"I imagined. I was showing great consideration, seeing I've no cause
to bear Mallory any overwhelming goodwill."

"I thought you had only met him once or twice?"

Rooke looked down at her with an odd expression.

"True--in the old days, only once. At your flat. But we've knocked up
against each other several times since then. And Mrs. Van Decken asked
him to come and see her portrait."

"You and he can have very little in common," observed Nan carelessly.

"Nothing"--promptly--"except the links of art. I've always been true
in my art--if in nothing else. Besides, all's grist that comes to
Mallory's mill. He regards me as a type. Ah!"--as the door opened
once more--"here they come."

Her throat contracted with nervousness and she felt that it would be a
physical impossibility for her to speak. She turned mechanically as
Penelope re-entered the room, followed by her husband and Peter
Mallory. Uppermost in Nan's mind was the thought, to which she clung
as to a sheet-anchor, that of the three witnesses to this meeting
between Peter and herself, the Fentons were ignorant of the fact that
she cared for him, and Maryon, whatever he might suspect, had no
certain knowledge.

The dreaded ordeal was quickly over. A simple handshake, and in a few
moments t