The talk had all to be done by Allan and his mother, since Mrs. Wornock's share in it was hardly more than monosyllabic. She assented to everything they said--she contradicted herself over and over again about the weather, and about the distinguishing features of the surrounding country. She agreed with Lady Emily that the hills spoiled the landscape; she assented to Allan's protestation that the hills were the chief charm of the neighbourhood. She rang for tea, and when the servants had brought tables and tray and tea-kettle, she sat as in a dream for ever so long before she became conscious that the things were there, and that she had a duty to perform. Then she filled the cups with tremulous hands, and allowed Allan to help her through the simplest details. Her obvious distress strengthened Allan's suspicions. There must be some mystery behind all this embarrassment. Mrs. Wornock could hardly behave in this way to every stranger who called upon her. Of all women living no one was less calculated to inspire awe than Lady Emily Carew. Good humour was writ large upon her open countenance. The milk of human kindness gave softness to her speech. She was full of consideration for others. Distracted by the music of the organ, Lady Emily had not even glanced at the Millais portrait which faced her as she walked along the corridor. It was, therefore, with unmixed astonishment that she observed a photograph on an easel conspicuous on a distant table--a photograph which she took to be the likeness of her son. "I see you have given Mrs. Wornock your photo, Allan," she said. "That is more than you have done for me since you were at the University." "Go and look at the photo, mother, and you will see I have not been so wanting in filial duty." Lady Emily rose and went over to the table in the furthermost window. "No, I see it is another face; but there is a wonderful look of you. Pray who is this nice-looking young man, Mrs. Wornock? I may call him nice-looking with a good grace, since he is not my son. His features are more refined than Allan's. The modelling of the face is more delicate." "That is my son's portrait," answered Mrs. Wornock, "and it is thought a good likeness. He is like Mr. Carew, is he not? Almost startlingly like; but the resemblance is less striking in the picture than in the living face. It is in expression that the two faces are alike." "I begin to understand why you are interested in my son," said Lady Emily, smiling down at the face on the easel. "The two young men might be brothers. Pray how old is this young gentleman?" "He will be six and twenty in August." "And Allan was twenty-five last March. And is Mr. Wornock an only son, like my Allan?" "Yes. I have only him. When he is away, I am quite alone--except for my organ and piano. I try sometimes to think they are both alive."