"That's the last thing you can call it! A more uninteresting production I never beheld. What right had he to waste good canvas? That is one point in which we do show more common sense than our ancestors. We do not consider it necessary to inflict our portraits on posterity." "No. We don't. At least--" He swung round, facing me, with his back to the open drawing-room door, his face suddenly keen and alert. "Miss Wastneys--never mind the picture! I brought you out as an excuse. I wanted to ask--_Whats the matter_?" The question rapped out, short and sharp. I looked at him, made a big effort to be bright, and natural, and defiant, and realised suddenly that I was trembling; that, while my cheeks were hot, my hands were cold as ice; that, in short, the shock and excitement of the last half-hour was taking its physical revenge. For two straws I could have burst out crying there and then. It is a ridiculous feminine weakness to be given to tears at critical moments, but if you have it, you have it, and so far I have not discovered a cure. I could have kept going if he had taken no notice, and gone on talking naturally; but that question knocked me over, so I just stared at him and gulped, and pressed my hands together, with that awful, awful sensation which comes over one when one knows it is madness to give way, and yet feels that the moment after next you are just going to _do_ it, and nothing can stop you! I thought of Charmion, sitting calm and quiet in the palm-house; I thought of that first horrible interview in the inn parlour; I thought of my heroic ancestors. It was no use; every moment I drew, nearer and nearer to the breaking-point. I still stared, but the Squire's face was growing misty, growing into a big, red-brown blur. Then suddenly a hand gripped my arm, and a voice said sharply:-- "Don't cry, please! No necessity to cry. You are tired. I will order the car. It shall be round in five minutes. You can surely pull yourself together for five minutes?" The voice was like a douche of cold water. I shivered under it, but felt wonderfully braced. "Oh, thank you, but we ordered a fly." "That's all right. I'll see to that. No one shall know anything about it. You will leave earlier than you expected--that's all. I'm sorry"-- his lean face twitched--"the time has seemed so long!" "It's not"--I said feebly--"it's not that!" But he led the way back to the drawing-room, taking no notice. Five minutes later "Mrs Fane's carriage" was announced, and we bade a protesting hostess good-night. Charmion and I sat silent, hand in hand, all the way home. She felt cold as ice, but she clung to me; her fingers closed over mine. Just as we reached our own door she whispered a few words. "I'll come to your room, dear. Wait up for me." The time had come when I was to hear Charmion's story from her own lips! CHAPTER THIRTEEN. MORE BITTER THAN DEATH.