“Wonder what they’ll give me for that,” he Said quietly, pointing to it.  “My father always said it was the pick.  You remember the story that she—­my great-grandmother—­once came across Lady Hamilton in Romney’s studio, and Emma Hamilton told Romney afterwards that at last he’d found a sitter handsomer than herself.  It’s a winner.  You inherit her eyes, Douglas, and her colour.  What’s it worth?”

“Twenty thousand perhaps.”  Douglas’s voice had the cock-sureness that goes with new knowledge.  “I’ve been looking into some of the recent prices.”

“Twenty thousand!” said Sir Arthur, musing.  “And Romney got seventy-five for it, I believe—­I have the receipt somewhere.  I shall miss that picture.  What shall I get for it?  A few shabby receipts—­for nothing.  My creditors will get something out of her—­mercifully.  But as for me—­I might as well have cut her into strips.  She looks annoyed—­as though she knew I’d thrown her away.  I believe she was a vixen.”

“I must go and change, father,” said Douglas.

“Yes, yes, dear boy, go and change.  Douglas, you think there’ll be a few thousands over, don’t you, besides your mother’s settlement, when it’s all done?”

“Precious few,” said Douglas, pausing on his way to the door.  “Don’t count upon anything, father.  If we do well to-morrow, there may be something.”

“Four or five thousand?—­ten, even?  You know, Duggy, many men have built up fortunes again on no more.  A few weeks ago I had all sorts of ideas.”

“That’s no good,” said Douglas, with emphasis.  “For God’s sake, father, don’t begin again.”

Sir Arthur nodded silently, and Douglas left the room.

His father remained sitting where his son had left him, his fingers drumming absently on the arms of his chair, his half-shut eyes wandering over the splendid garden outside, with its statues and fountains, and its masses of roses, all fused in the late evening glow.

The door opened softly.  His wife came in.

Lady Laura had lost her old careless good humour.  Her fair complexion had changed for the worse; there were lines in her white forehead, and all her movements had grown nervous and irritable.  But her expression as she stood by her husband was one of anxious though rather childish affection.

“How are you, Arthur?  Did you get a nap?”

“A beauty!” said her husband, smiling at her, and taking her hand.  “I dreamt about Raby, and the first time I saw you there in the old Duke’s day.  What a pretty thing you were, Laura!—­like a monthly rose, all pink.”

He patted her hand; Lady Laura shrugged her shoulders rather pettishly.

“It’s no good thinking about that now....  You’re not really going to have a shooting-party, Arthur?  I do wish you wouldn’t!”

“But of course I am!” said her husband, raising himself with alacrity.  “The grouse must be shot, and the estate is not sold yet!  I’ve asked young Meyrick, and Lord Charles, and Robert Vere.  You can ask the Charlevilles, dear, and if my lady doesn’t come I shan’t break my heart.  Then there are five or six of the neighbours of course.  And no whining and whimpering!  The last shoot at Flood shall be a good one!  The keeper tells me the birds are splendid!”