The words had been so literally on his lips that he could hardly realise that they had not been uttered when Mr. Hayes spoke. For the moment the likeness had been complete. Then he saw how it was, laughed, and said-- "Oh, thank you." But he flashed an uneasy glance at Barbara, who was lingering near. Was he really like that pale, bitter-lipped portrait? He fancied that her face would tell him, but she was looking fixedly at Anthony Rothwell. "Mind you are not late for dinner, Barbara," said her uncle quickly. She woke to radiant animation. "_I_ won't be," she said. "But if you are going to introduce Mr. Harding to all the pictures first----" "I'm not going to do anything of the kind." "That's right. Mr. Harding's ancestors won't spoil if they are kept waiting a little, but I can't answer for the fish." "Pray don't let any dead and gone Rothwells interfere with your dinner," said Reynold. "If one's ancestors can't wait one's convenience, I don't know who can." CHAPTER IV. DINNER AND A LITTLE MUSIC. Barbara was the first to reappear in the yellow drawing-room. She had gone away, laughing carelessly; she came back shyly, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes. She had put on a dress which was reserved for important occasions, and she was conscious of her splendour. She felt the strings of amber beads that were wound loosely round her throat, and that rose and fell with her quickened breathing. Nay, she was conscious to the utmost end of the folds of black drapery, that followed her with a soft sound, as of a summer sea, when she crossed the pavement of the hall. For Barbara's dress was black, and its special adornment was some handsome black lace that her grandmother had given her. Something of lighter hue and texture might have better suited her age, but there was no questioning the fact that the dignified richness of her gown was admirably becoming to the girl. One hardly knew whether to call her childish or stately, and the perplexity was delightful. Her heart was beating fast, half in apprehension and half in defiance. Over and over again while she waited she said to herself that she had _not_ put on her best dress for Mr. Harding's sake, she had _not_. She did not care what he thought of her. He might come and go, just as other people might come and go. It did not matter to her. But his coming seemed somehow to have brought all the Rothwells back to life, and to have revealed the desolate pride of the old house. When she looked from Reynold's face to Anthony's, she suddenly felt that she must put on her best dress for their company. It was no matter of personal feeling, it was an instinctive and imperative sense of what the circumstances demanded. She had never been to such a dinner party in all her life.