He had once met Mallory and had admired the man enormously.  The meeting had occurred during the summer preceding that which had witnessed Nan’s engagement to Roger.  Peter had been paying a flying week-end visit to the Seymours, and Sandy had taken a boy’s instinctive liking to the brilliant writer who never “swanked,” as the lad put it, but who understood so well the bitter disappointment of which Duncan McBain’s uncompromising attitude towards music had been the cause.  And this was the man Nan loved and who loved her!

With instinctive tact, Sandy refrained from any comment on Nan’s outburst.  Instead, he pushed her gently into a chair, talking the while, so that she might have time to recover herself a little.

“I tell you what it is, Nan,” he said with rough kindness.  “You’ve overdone it a bit working at that concerto, and instead of giving yourself a holiday, you’ve been tiring yourself still more by sitting for your portrait.  You may find Rooke mentally refreshing if you like, but posing for him hour after hour is a confounded strain, physically.  Now, you take your good Uncle Sandy’s advice and let the portrait slide for a bit.  You might occupy yourself by making arrangements for the production of the concerto.”

“I don’t feel any interest in it,” she said slowly.  “It’s funny, isn’t it, Sandy?  I was so keen about it when I was writing it.  And now I think it’s rotten.”

“It isn’t,” said Sandy.  “It’s good stuff, Nan.  Anyone would tell you so.”

“Do you think so?” she replied, without enthusiasm.

He regarded her with an expression of anxiety.

“Oh, you mustn’t drop the concerto,” he protested.  “That’s always been your trick, Nan, to go so far and no further.”

“It’s a very good rule to follow—­in some things,” she replied enigmatically.

“Well, look here, will you hand the manuscript over to me and let me show it to someone?”

“No, I won’t,” she said with decision.  “I hate the concerto now.  It has—­it has unpleasant associations.  Let it rest in oblivion.”

He shrugged his shoulders in despair.

“You’re the most aggravating woman I know,” he remarked irritably.

In an instant Nan was her own engaging self once more.  It was instinctive with her to try and charm away an atmosphere of disapproval.

“Don’t say that, Sandy,” she replied, making a beseeching little moue.  “You know it would be awfully boring if I always did just exactly what you were expecting me to do.  It’s better to be aggravating than—­dull!”

Sandy smiled.  Nan was always quite able to make her peace with him when she chose to.

“Well, no one can complain that you’re dull,” he acknowledged.

CHAPTER XXXI

TOWARDS UNKNOWN WAYS

The afternoon post had just been delivered and the postman was already whizzing his way down the drive on his scarlet-painted bicycle as Lady Gertrude unlocked the private post-bag appertaining to Trenby Hall.  This was one of the small jobs usually delegated to her niece, but for once the latter was away on holiday, staying with friends at Penzance.