‘She might win a cup to-morrow. You have reason to be proud of her.’ They all went into the refectory, where, under the lofty open timber roof, a small oval table looked like an island in a sea of Turkey carpet and polished oak flooring. ‘It would have served you right if we had had the long dinner-table,’ Gerald said to Daphne, as he passed her with Mrs. Ferrers on his arm. ‘I thought we were going to picnic in the park,’ said Madoline. ‘Daphne——Neither you nor Daphne seemed to care about it,’ replied Gerald. ‘This is a great deal more sensible,’ remarked Mrs. Ferrers. ‘Oh, I don’t know; it’s awfully jolly to eat one’s luncheon under the trees in such weather as this,’ said Edgar. ‘For Mr. Turchill’s particular gratification, we will have afternoon tea in the cloisters,’ said Gerald. ‘Blake,’ to the butler, ‘let there be tea at half-past four on the grass in the cloisters.’ Daphne could eat or drink very little, though Edgar, who sat next to her, was pressing in his offers of lobster mayonnaise, and cold chicken, cutlets, sole à la maître d’hôtel, Perigord pie. She was looking about her at the portraits on the walls. Facing her hung Prescott Knight’s picture of the man who began his career by wheeling barrows, and who ended it by building mighty viaducts, levelling hills, filling valleys, making the crooked paths straight. It was a brave honest English face, plain, rugged even, the painter having in no wise flattered his sitter; but a countenance that was pleasanter to the eye than many a handsome face. A countenance that promised truth and honour, manliness and warm feelings in its possessor. Daphne looked from the portrait on the wall to the present master of the Abbey. No; there was not one point of resemblance between Gerald Goring and his father.