ll 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.

"I think you'll find," said Isobel, as she and Roger strolled back to
the car, "that the light _will_ be quite good enough for painting."

And that seemingly harmless remark lodged in Roger's mind and rankled
there throughout the whole of the following day when the Peabody lunch
took place as arr