Scarlett owned that the name conveyed nothing to his mind, but when in return he mentioned his own, he was certain that he caught a flash of recognition in the other's eyes. "He expected that," he soliloquised, as he picked up his paper again. "Here is a mystery! Deuce take the fellow--why did he stare at me so? He isn't as handsome as I thought he was in the glass--he's ill-tempered and awkward; it isn't a pleasant face, though of course the features are good. He might make a good picture--and, by Jove! that's what he was--a picture! and I didn't know him out of his frame! I wonder whether it's a chance resemblance, or whether----" "Were you ever at a place called Mitchelhurst?" he asked, abruptly. The blood mounted to Harding's face. "Yes," he said. "Then," said Adrian, "you must surely be some connection of the family at the old Place--the _old_ family at the old Place, I mean. I have made out the likeness that puzzled me. There is a picture there----" "I am connected with the family," said Harding, "on my mother's side. It isn't much to boast of----" "If you come to that," Scarlett answered lightly, "what is? But I'll confess--I dare say I ought to be ashamed of myself--but I'll confess that I _do_ care about such things. I don't want to boast, but I would rather my ancestors were gentlemen, than that they were butchers and bakers and--well, the candlestick-makers might be decorative artists in their way, and so a trifle better." Harding scowled, but did not speak. "You don't agree with me," Adrian went on, with his pleasant smile. "Well, you can afford to scorn the pride of long descent if you choose. And, mind you, though I prefer the gentleman, I dare say the trades-man might be more valuable to the community at large!" "I hope so," said Harding with a sneer. "My grandfather was a pork-butcher." "Oh!" exclaimed Adrian, blankly. "You combine both, certainly!" He was decidedly taken aback by the announcement, as the other had intended, but he recovered himself first. It was Harding who looked sullen and ill at ease after the revelation into which he had been betrayed, as if his grandfather had somehow recoiled upon him, and knocked him down. Young Scarlett felt that he could not get up and go away the moment the pork-butcher was introduced, though he half regretted that he had come from the piano to talk to his sulky descendant. "Well, you get your looks from your ancestors at Mitchelhurst," he said; "it's quite wonderful. I studied those portraits a good deal, and there's one on the right-hand side of the fire-place in the yellow drawing-room, as they call it--do you know the house well?" "Yes, well enough. Yes, I know Anthony Rothwell's picture." "It might be yours," said Adrian. Reynold's only answer was a doubtful "Hm!"