“No,” she answered, laughingly; “I have never felt less fatigued.”

“Then I should like to show you over the house,” he said—­“my dear old home.  I am so proud of it, Madaline; you understand what I mean—­proud of its beauty; its antiquity—­proud that no shadow of disgrace has ever rested on it.  To others these are simply ancient gray walls; to me they represent the honor, the stainless repute, the unshadowed dignity of my race.  People may sneer if they will, but to me there seems nothing so sacred as love of race—­jealousy of a stainless name.”

“I can understand and sympathize with you,” she said, “although the feeling is strange to me.”

“Not quite strange, Madaline.  Your mother had a name, dear, entitled to all respect.  Now come with me, and I will introduce you to the long line of the Ladies Arleigh.”

They went together to the picture-gallery, and as they passed through the hall Madaline heard the great clock chiming.

“Ah, Norman,” she said, listening to the chimes, “how much may happen in one day, however short that day may be.”

Chapter XXV.

The picture-gallery was one of the chief attractions of Beechgrove; like the grand old trees, it had been the work of generations.  The Arleighs had always been great patrons of the fine arts; many a lord of Beechgrove had expended what was a handsome fortune in the purchase of pictures.  The gallery itself was built on a peculiar principal; it went round the whole of the house, extending from the eastern to the western wing—­it was wide, lofty, well-lighted, and the pictures were well hung.  In wet weather the ladies of the house used it as a promenade.  It was filled with art-treasures of all kinds, the accumulation of many generations.  From between the crimson velvet hangings white marble statues gleamed, copies of the world’s great masterpieces; there were also more modern works of art.  The floor was of the most exquisite parquetry; the seats and lounges were soft and luxurious; in the great windows east and west there stood a small fountain, and the ripple of the water sounded like music in the quietude of the gallery.  One portion of it was devoted entirely to family portraits.  They were a wonderful collection perhaps one of the most characteristic in England.

Lord Arleigh and his young wife walked through the gallery.

“I thought the gallery at Verdun Royal the finest in the world,” she said; “it is nothing compared to this.”

“And this,” he returned, “is small, compared with the great European galleries.”

“They belong to nations; this belongs to an individual,” she said—­“there is a difference.”

Holding her hand in his, he led her to the long line of fair-faced women.  As she stood, the light from the setting sun falling on her fair face and golden hair, he said to himself that he had no picture in his gallery one-half so exquisite.