Mr. Randolph smiled indulgently. "You can do anything you like, my darling," he said. "I wonder you condescend to ask." Nina ran over and kissed him, then propped her chin on top of his head and looked defiantly at Thorpe. "If you don't take me," she remarked, drily, "there will be no hunt." "On the whole, I think my mind would concentrate better if you were not absent," he said. She blew him a kiss. "You _are_ improving. _Hasta luego!_ I must go and smooth my feathers." And she ran out of the room. The two men talked of the threatened civil upheaval in the United States until dinner was announced, a half hour later. Mrs. Randolph did not appear until the soup had been removed. She entered the dining-room hurriedly, muttering an apology. Her toilette had evidently been made in haste: her brooch was awry; and her hair, banded down the face after the fashion of the time, hung an inch below one ear and exposed the lobe of the other, dealing detrimentally with her dignity, despite her fine physique. She took no part in the conversation for some time. It was very lively. Mr. Randolph was full of anecdote and information, and enjoyed scintillating. He frequently referred to Nina, as if proud of her cleverness and anxious to exhibit it; but the guest noticed that he never addressed a word--nor a glance--to his wife. Suddenly Thorpe's eyes rested on a small dark painting in oils, the head of an old man. "That is rather good," he said, "and a very interesting face." "You have probably never heard of the artist, unless you have read the life of his sister. I was so fond of the man that I resent his rescue from oblivion by the fame of a woman. His name was Branwell Brontë, and that is a portrait of my grandfather." "If Branwell 'ad a-conducted hisself," said a heavy voice opposite, "'ee'd a-been the wonder of the family. Mony a time a 've seen 'im coom into tha Lord Rodney Inn, 'is sharp little face as red as tha scoollery maid's 'ands, and rockin' from one side of tha 'all to tha hother, and sit doon at tha table, and make a carica_chure_ of ivvery mon thot coom in. And once when 'ee was station-master at Luddondon Foote a 've 'eard as 'ow a mon coom runnin' oop just as tha train went oot, and said as 'ow 'ee was horful anxious to know if a certain mon went hoff. 'Ee tried describin' 'im, and couldn't, so Branwell drew pictures of all the persons as 'ad left, and 'ee recog_nised_ the one as 'ee wanted." There was a moment's silence, so painful that Thorpe felt his nerves jumping and the colour rising to his face. He recalled his promise, and looked meditatively at the strange concoction which had been placed before him as Mrs. Randolph finished. But his thought was arbitrary. An ignorant woman of the people, possibly an ex-servant, who could only play the gentlewoman through a half-dozen rehearsed sentences, and forget the rôle completely at times! He had not expected to find the skeleton so soon.