“I did—from memory. A man’s best friend should represent him most faithfully. Don’t you think so?” “But had you nothing to work from?” “Oh, no! Nothing but memory. Memory is a very wonderful thing if one only cultivates it.” “If I died, do you think you could paint me?” asked Rosalie, turning her face up to his. “No,” he answered. “I have not known you quite long enough. I could attempt nothing better than a caricature at present.” She laughed, and said: “I must endeavour to live a little longer, then.” CHAPTER XIII THE FOLLY OF SIMPLICITY Together they entered the central hall, and saw Mariana standing waiting there. When she saw Rosalie she stepped towards her, but on seeing Mr. Barringcourt beyond her she stood still. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “For Rosalie. It is long past her time for coming in.” “You have wonderful patience to stand here waiting. Anyone else would have gone to look for her.” “If one waits long enough one generally gets what one wants,” she answered, rather irrelevantly. “Well, don’t stand there any longer. You’re not needed.” “Thank you.” She turned away with grace and easy dignity, and walked toward the staircase; but when there she looked across at Rosalie. “Tea is ready.” What a dungeon-knell there was in those three words! Tea in that little shabby sitting-room, away from everything of light, or life, or understanding. A piece of bread, a cup of tea and whatever else was going, eaten alone, and the dreariness of a long dull evening beyond. And somehow or other the thought of the evening frightened Rosalie. It was so dark. The long passages above so ghostly, dim, and silent. And below? She shivered and looked towards the door of the eastern wing, that in some unaccountable way seemed to pervade all things with its shadow and odour of graves. So though Mariana, after she had spoken, stood still and waited a while for the effect of her words, Rosalie delayed to follow her. The freedom and grandeur of the sunset was still running in her veins; the pleasantness of conversation and companionship had its influence on her also. “Ought I to go?” she asked suddenly, looking up at Mr. Barringcourt. “I don’t know, I’m sure. If you admire Mariana as much as you profess I think you should go.” “It isn’t a case of Mariana. It’s me—myself.” “Well, what of you?” “I’d much rather stay, and have my tea with—with you.” “I don’t indulge in tea.” “Then do they insist on your eating a red lozenge instead?” “Oh, no! They recognise that I am quite able to look after myself.” “Everard told me I was capable of doing that. And yet at dinner-time to-day I was presented with a red lozenge on a silver salver to take the place of ordinary food.” “And you accepted it?” “No, I didn’t. But if you don’t have tea, I’d better leave you.”