Then Querida rose and walked over to the portrait and stood before it in silence, biting at his vivid under lip and at the crisp hairs of his beard that framed it.

Without knowing why, Neville began to feel that Querida was finding in that half-finished work something that disturbed him; and that he was not going to acknowledge what it was that he saw there, whether of good or of the contrary.

Nobody spoke and Querida said nothing.

A mild hope entered Neville’s mind that the something, which had never been in any work of his, might perhaps lie latent in that canvas—­that Querida was discovering it—­without a pleasure—­but with a sensitive clairvoyance which was already warning him of a new banner in the distance, a new trumpet-call from the barriers, another lance in the lists where he, Querida, had ridden so long unchallenged and supreme.

Within him he felt a sudden and secret excitement that he never before had known—­a conviction that the unexpressed hostility of Querida’s silence was the truest tribute ever paid him—­the tribute that at last was arousing hope from its apathy, and setting spurs to his courage.

Rita, watching Querida, yawned and concealed the indiscretion with her hand and a taunting word directed at Ogilvy, who retorted in kind.  And general conversation began again.

Querida turned toward Neville, caught his eye, and shrugged: 

“That portrait is scarcely in your happiest manner, is it?” he asked with a grimace.  “For me—­” he touched his breast with long pale fingers—­“I adore your gayer vein—­your colour, clarity—­the glamour of splendour that you alone can cast over such works as that—­” He waved his hand upward toward the high canvas looming above.  And he smiled at Neville and seated himself beside Valerie.

A portfolio of new mezzotints attracted Annan; others gathered around to examine Neville’s treasures; the tea table was deserted for a while except by Querida and Valerie.  Then he deliberately dropped his voice: 

“Will you give me another cup of tea, Valerie?  And let me talk to you?”

“With pleasure.”  She set about preparing it.

“I have not seen you for some time,” he said in the same caressing undertone.

“You haven’t required me, Jose.”

“Must it be entirely a matter of business between us?”

“Why, of course,” she said in cool surprise.  “You know perfectly well how busy I am—­and must be.”

“You are sometimes busy—­pouring tea, here.”

“But it is after hours.”

“Yet, after hours, you no longer drop in to chat with me.”

“Why, yes, I do—­”

“Pardon.  Not since—­the new year began....  Will you permit me a word?”

She inclined her head with undisturbed composure; he went on: 

“I have asked you to many theatres, invited you to dine with me, to go with me to many, many places.  And, it appeared, that you had always other engagements....  Have I offended you?”