Nan remained quietly where she was, gazing at the big picture of the famous American beauty.  It was a fine piece of work; the lights and shadows had been handled magnificently, and it was small wonder that the man who could produce such work had leaped into the foremost rank of portrait-painters.  She felt very glad of his success, remembering how bitter he had been in former days over his failure to obtain recognition.  She turned and, finding him beside her again, spoke her thought quite simply.

“You’ve made good at last, Maryon.  You’ve no grudge against the world now.”

He looked down at her oddly.

“Haven’t I? . . .  Well, you should know,” he replied.

She gave a little impatient twist of her shoulders.  He hadn’t altered at all, it seemed; he still possessed his old faculty for implying so much more than was contained in the actual words he spoke.

“Most people would be content with the success you’ve gained,” she answered steadily.

“Most people—­yes.  But to gain the gold and miss . . . the rainbow!—­A quoi bon?”

His voice vibrated.  This sudden meeting with Nan was trying him hard.

There had been two genuine things in the man’s life—­his love for Nan and his love of his art.  He had thrust the first deliberately aside so that he might not be handicapped in the second, and now that the race was won and success assured he was face to face with the realisation of the price that must be paid.  Nan was out of his reach for ever.  Standing here at his side with all her old elusive charm—­out of his reach!

“What did you mean”—­she was speaking to him again—­“by telling Penny that you expected to see me soon—­before she would?”

“Ah, that’s my news.  Of course, when I wrote, I thought you were still down in Cornwall, with the Trenbys.  I’d no idea you were coming up to town just now.”

“I’m up unexpectedly,” murmured Nan.  “Well?  What then?”

He smiled, as though enjoying his secret.

“Isn’t Burnham Court somewhere in your direction?”

“Yes.  It’s about midway between the Hall and Mallow Court.  It belonged to a Sir Robert Burnham who’s just died.  Why do you ask?”

“Because Burnham was my godfather.  The old chap disapproved of me strongly at one time—­thought painting pictures a fool’s job.  But since luck came my way, his opinion apparently altered, and when he died he left me all his property—­Burnham Court included.”

“Burnham Court!” exclaimed Nan in astonishment.

“Yes.  Droll, isn’t it?  So I thought of coming down some time this spring and seeing how it feels to be a land-owner.  My wife is taking a trip to the States then—­to visit some friends.”

“How nice!” Nan’s exclamation was quite spontaneous.  It would be nice to have another of her own kind—­one of her mental kith and kin—­near at hand after she was married.