She followed obediently and, in a rather dark corner of the hall, Lord Buntingford pointed out an unfinished sketch of Lady Hamilton—­one of the many Bacchante variants—­the brown head bent a little under the ivy leaves in the hair, the glorious laughing eyes challenging the spectator.

“Is she like that?” asked Mrs. Friend, wondering.

“Who?—­my ward?” laughed Lord Buntingford.  “Well, you’ll see.”

He walked away, and Mrs. Friend stayed a few minutes more in front of the picture—­thinking—­and with half an ear listening for the sound of a motor.  She was full of tremors and depression.  “I was a fool to come—­a fool to accept!” she thought.  The astonishing force of the sketch—­of the creature sketched—­intimidated her.  If Helena Pitstone were really like that—­“How can she ever put up with me?  She’ll just despise me.  It will be only natural.  And then if things go wrong, Lord Buntingford will find out I’m no good—­and I shall have to go!”

She gave a long sigh, lifting her eyes a little—­against her will—­to the reflection of herself in an old mirror hanging beside the Romney.  What a poor little insignificant figure—­beside the other!  No, she had no confidence in herself—­none at all—­she never had had.  The people she had lived with had indeed generally been fond of her.  It was because she made herself useful to them.  Old Mrs. Browne had professed affection for her,—­till she gave notice.  She turned with a shiver from the recollection of an odious scene.

She went bade to the drawing-room and thence to the library, looking wistfully, as she passed through it, at the pleasant hall, with its old furniture, and its mellowed comfort.  She would like to find a home here, if only they would put up with her.  For she was very homeless.

As compared with the drawing-room, the library had been evidently lived in.  Its books and shabby chairs seemed to welcome her, and the old tapestry delighted her.  She stood some minutes before it in a quiet pleasure, dreaming herself into the forest, and discovering an old castle in its depths.  Then she noticed a portrait of an old man, labelled as by “Frank Holl, R. A.,” hanging over the mantelpiece.  She supposed it was the grandfather who had collected the books.  The face and hair of the old man had blanched indeed to a singular whiteness; but the eyes, blue under strong eyebrows, with their concentrated look, were the eyes of the Lord Buntingford with whom she had just been talking.

The hoot of a motor startled her, and she ran to a window which commanded the drive.  An open car was rapidly approaching.  A girl was driving it, with a man in chauffeur’s uniform sitting behind her.  She brought the car smartly up to the door, then instantly jumped out, lifted the bonnet, and stood with the chauffeur at her side, eagerly talking to him and pointing to something in the chassis.  Mrs. Friend saw Lord Buntingford run down the steps