“And this daughter-in-law of yours has gone back to Italy,” continued her ladyship presently. “I should very much like to have seen her.” “You have only to extend your visit at the Chase in order to do so. I presume that Mrs. Clare will not be gone more than a month at the most.” Lady Pell shook her head. “I am only awaiting a letter from Madame de Bellecour in order to——” At this juncture Luigi stepped out through the long window, and crossing to his grandfather, said: “Have you any objection, sir, to Miss Thursby playing the piano? If it will annoy you in the slightest degree, of course——” “Not at all—not at all,” broke in Sir Gilbert a little brusquely. “Let her play by all means. Why should it annoy me, eh?” “Not a bit like poor Alec—not one little bit,” remarked Lady Pell as if to herself; but, for a man of his years, Sir Gilbert’s hearing was extraordinarily keen, and her words reached him. His first impulse was to indulge in a little explosion, his second was to think better of it. After all, his cousin was merely enunciating a truth of which no one could be more unpleasantly conscious than he was; still, it is not always agreeable to have truths which we cannot deny, but would fain ignore, stated thus bluntly by another. “And is it the boy’s fault, Louisa, that he resembles in no way his father?” asked Sir Gilbert presently, but without any trace of irritability. “Which of us can help our looks?” Lady Pell felt a touch of compunction. Without intending it, she had pricked her kinsman in a sore place. “Of course the young man is in no way to blame,” she replied, “and it would be nonsense to impute any such meaning to my words. I could not help saying what I did because for hundreds of years back there has not been a Clare in the direct line whose features did not bear the unmistakable Clare stamp. If you dispute what I say, your own portrait gallery will suffice to convince you that I am right. But, as you are well aware, you can’t dispute my dictum. Why, as far as features and expression go, you yourself are as like the Maurice Clare who fell at Marston Moor as one pea is like another. Still, as you justly observe, your grandson can in no way be held answerable for the misfortune of his looks, and if in other respects he fulfils your expectations, there’s not a word more to be said.” There was a little space of silence; then, with a half sigh, Sir Gilbert said: “Between you and me, Louisa, that is just where the shoe pinches. Unfortunately, Lewis does _not_ fulfil my expectations—far from it. But then, as I sometimes put it to myself, considering the way he was brought up, am I not asking more of him than I have any right to expect?” “That certainly is a point of view which should not be lost sight of,” responded her ladyship. “But what is it in particular that you complain of in him?”