The portrait of a schoolboy,—­an Eton boy with a long nose and small, grey eyes, and an expression distinctly rather sulky and lowering than open or pleasing.  Not a stupid face, however, by any means.

“It is my boy—­Peter,” said Lady Mary, softly.

To her the face was something more than beautiful.  She looked up at John with a happy certainty of his interest in her son.

“Here he is again, when he was younger.  He was a pretty little fellow then, as you see.”

“Very pretty.  But not very like you,” said John, scarcely knowing what he said.

He was strangely moved and touched by her evident confidence in his sympathy, though his artistic tastes were outraged by the two portraits she asked him to admire.  He reflected that women were very extraordinary creatures; ready to be pleased with anything Providence might care to bestow upon them in the shape of a child, even cross-looking boys with long noses and small eyes.  The heir of Barracombe resembled his aunts rather than his parents.

“He is a thorough Crewys; not a bit like me.  All the Setouns are fair, I believe.  Peter is very dark.  He is such a big fellow now; taller than I am.  I sometimes wish,” said Lady Mary, laying the miniature on the table as though she could not bear to shut it away immediately, “that one’s children never grew up.  They are such darlings when they are little, and they are bound, of course, to disappoint one sometimes as they grow older.”

John Crewys felt almost murderously inclined towards Peter.  So the young cub had presumed to disappoint his mother as he grew older!  How dared he?

Poor Lady Mary was quite unconscious of the feelings with which he gazed at the little case in his hand.

“Not that my boy has ever really disappointed me—­yet,” she said, with her pretty apologetic laugh.  “I only mean that, in the course of human nature, it’s bound to come, now and then.”

“No doubt,” said John, gently.

Then she allowed him to examine the rest of the cabinet, whilst she talked on, always of Peter—­his horsemanship and his shooting and his prowess in every kind of sport and game.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Lady Belstone was holding a hurried consultation with her sister.

“How thoughtless you are, Georgina, asking our cousin into the dining-room just when Ash must be laying the cloth for dinner.  He will be sadly put about.”

“Dear, dear, it quite slipped my memory, Isabella.”

“You have no head at all, Georgina.”

“Can I frame an excuse?” said Miss Crewys, piteously, “or will he think it discourteous?”

“Leave it to me, Georgina,” said Lady Belstone, with the air of a diplomat.  “Mary, my love!”

Lady Mary started.  “Yes, Isabella.”

“Georgina has very properly recalled to me that candles and lamps make a very poor light for viewing the family portraits.  You know, my love, the Vandyck is so very dark and black.  She proposes, therefore, with your permission, to act as our cousin’s cicerone to-morrow morning, in the daytime.  Shall we say—­at eleven o’clock, John?”