But she was her usual prim, precise, close-lipped self when in her dress of black satin, a heavy gold chain round her neck, her faded hair crowned with a tasteful lace cap, and carrying a bunch of highly polished keys, she proceeded to show the little party over what might be termed the state apartments of the old mansion, not one of which had been entered by Sir Gilbert since his second wife’s death. From room to room they went in leisurely fashion—the large drawing-room, the small ditto, “my lady’s boudoir,” the state dining-room, and so on, taking each in turn; and then upstairs, where a couple of the “best bedrooms” invited inspection—each and all being denuded of carpets and curtains, and of everything except its own special suite of furniture. Still, no great exercise of the imagination was needed to picture what those spacious and stately apartments must at one time have looked like, nor what they might very easily be made to look like again. Last of all they came to the picture-gallery, where the housekeeper, with an elaborate courtesy and a thin acid smile, took her leave. “What a rummy old card!” was Luigi’s outspoken comment almost before her back was turned. “Lewis, how can you speak of her in that way?” exclaimed Giovanna. “To me she has something of the air of a broken-down duchess.” “As if you had ever seen a broken-down duchess, mother!” retorted the young man flippantly. “Mrs. Burton is a lady by birth—at least, so she gives everyone to understand,” remarked Everard drily. “And now, Mr. Clare, here we are among the painted effigies of your ancestors. I have already made the acquaintance of most of them, as far as it is possible for a man still in the flesh to do so. Would you like me to introduce you to any of them?” “N—no, I think not. Fact is, I don’t care a rap about the whole boiling of ’em.” “Idiot!” hissed Giovanna in his ear. Then turning to Everard with a smile, she said: “I am afraid my son is falling into an absurd habit—sadly too common among the young men of to-day—of depreciating things which they really understand and care about, although they won’t admit it. One day I must show you some of Lewis’s drawings and water-colours. He has done nothing in oils as yet, I believe. I fancy they will rather surprise you.” “What rubbish you talk, mother!” exclaimed Luigi. “By the way,” continued Mrs. Clare without heeding him, “if among these portraits there is one of my son’s namesake, the Colonel Lewis Clare who was killed in battle, I should certainly like to have it pointed out to me.” Luigi yawned openly. “I am sorry not to be able to gratify your wish,” responded Lisle. “No portrait of Colonel Clare is known to be in existence.” From the gallery they made their way by a side door into the grounds, where Shotover, the gardener, was awaiting them.