‘So am I,’ said Beaufort, entering. ‘I thought it likely that would be your intention, so I ordered your horse when I ordered mine. Where did you say you were going? I caught somebody’s name as I came in.’ ‘He said he was--a friend of my father’s,’ said Tom, sullenly. ‘Ah! it is easy for a man to say he is the friend of another who cannot contradict him. Anyhow, we can ride together so far. What’s the matter? Aren’t you ready?’ Beaufort said. ‘He has not finished his breakfast,’ said Janet, springing to Tom’s defence. ‘Oh, nonsense! at twelve o’clock!’ said Beaufort, with a laugh. And presently, notwithstanding the youth’s reluctance, he was carried off in triumph. Janet, much marvelling, followed them to the door to see them mount. She stood upon the steps, following their movements with her eyes, dimly comprehending, divining, with her feminine instincts half awakened. Tom’s sullen, reluctant look was more than ever like the portrait, which Janet paused once more to look at as she went back through the hall. She stood looking for a long time at the heavy, lowering face. It was a fine portrait, which Torrance had boasted of in his time, the money it had cost filling him with ill-concealed pride. It was the first thing which had shaken Janet in her devotion to the imaginary father who had been the god of her childhood. Tom was not so big; he was not tall at all, not more than middle height, though broadly and heavily made. It was very like Tom, and yet there was something in it which made the girl afraid. As she stood gazing with more and more uncertainty upon the pictured face, Lady Car came quickly into the hall--almost running--in evident anxiety and concern. She stopped suddenly as Janet turned round, casting a half-frightened, shuddering look from the picture to the girl before it. There was something like an apology in her nervous pause. ‘I--thought Tom was here,’ she said. ‘He has gone out riding--with Beau.’ ‘With Beau?’ Lady Car breathed something that sounded like ‘Thank God!’ ‘Is there anything wrong--with Tom?’ said Janet, gazing round upon her mother with defiance in her eyes. ‘Wrong? I hope not. They say not. Oh, God forbid!’ Lady Car put her hands together. She was very pale, with a little redness under her eyes. ‘Then, mother, if there’s nothing wrong, why do you look like that?’ ‘Like that?’ Lady Car attempted a little laugh. ‘Like what, my dear?’ She added, with a long-drawn breath, ‘It is my foolish anxiety; everybody says it is foolish. It is _plus forte que moi_.’ ‘I wish you would not speak French. Tom,’ said Janet, ‘is well enough, though he doesn’t look well. He ate no breakfast; and he looked as if he would like to take my head off. Isn’t Tom--very like father?’ she added, in a low voice.