"Well!--if you want the whole genealogical tree, here it is: There was a certain Ralph Flood, my grandfather, an old hunting squire, a regular bad lot! Oh! I can tell you the family history doesn't give me much chance! He came from Lincolnshire originally, having made the county there too hot to hold him, and bought the Abbey, which he meant to restore and never did. He worried his wife into her grave, and she left him three children: Neville, who succeeded his father; and two daughters--Meynell's mother, who was a good deal older than Neville and married Colonel Meynell, as he was then; and my mother, who was much the youngest, and died three years ago. She was Neville's favourite sister, and as he knew Richard didn't want the Abbey, he left it to me. A precious white elephant--not worth a fiver to anybody. I was only thirteen when Neville was drowned--" "Drowned?" Meryon explained that Neville Flood had lost his life in a storm on an Irish lough; a queer business, which no one had ever quite got to the bottom of. Many people had talked of suicide. There was no doubt he was in very low spirits just before it happened. He was unhappily married, mainly through his own fault. His wife could certainly have got a divorce from him if she had applied for it. But very soon after she separated from Flood she became a Catholic, and nothing would induce her to divorce him. And against her there was never a breath. It was said of course that he was in love with some one else, and broken-hearted that his wife refused to lend herself to a divorce. But nobody knew anything. "And, by Jove, I wonder why I'm telling you all these shady tales. You oughtn't to know anything about such things," Meryon broke off suddenly. Hester's beautiful mouth made a scornful movement. "I'm not a baby--and I intend to know what's _true_. I should like to see that picture." "What--of my Uncle Neville?" Meryon eyed her curiously, as they strolled on through the arched green of the woodland. Every now and then there were openings through which poured a fiery sun, illuminating Hester's face and form. "Do you know"--he said at last--"there is an uncommonly queer likeness between you and that picture?" "Me?" Hester opened her eyes in half-indifferent astonishment. "People say such absurd things. Heaps of people think I am like Uncle Richard--not complimentary, is it? I hope his uncle was better looking. And, anyway, I am no relation of either of them." "Neville and Richard were often mistaken for one another--though Neville was a deal handsomer than old Richard. However, nobody can account for likenesses. If you come to think of it, we are all descended from a small number of people. But it has often struck me--" He looked at her again attentively. "The setting of the ear--and the upper lip--and the shape of the brow--I shall bring you a photograph of the picture." "What does it matter!" said Hester impatiently. "Besides, I am going away directly--to Paris."