Mrs. Keith wore a look of astonishment. "You could not help remembering—what?" "The portrait I saw in your cabinet—the one so like Colin! Don't you know?"—as Mrs. Keith seemed puzzled. "When I went to look for the piece of silk." "My dear, how droll!" Mrs. Keith laughed again, rather loudly. "That you should think of the two together, I mean. It is quite comic. I am glad you did not say what you thought—though of course you could not, because you had promised." "No—I remembered." "Besides—that is my own concern—the likeness of my brother. Dear harum-scarum old Jock—how long it is since I saw him! But, as I told you, nobody knows of that picture, and it is worth nothing to anybody. This disappearance is another matter. The picture we cannot find is a family heirloom, by a famous artist, and is of great value. Mr. Dugdale's notion of its being like Colin is ridiculous. There is no resemblance." Her cheeks had red spots, as if she were angry. "He is such a fanciful man—always imagining things. The likeness that you saw is real enough—only what one might expect! But this notion of Mr. Dugdale's—if it were less absurd, one might be annoyed." She stopped for a moment. "The loss of that picture is a real misfortune. Giles will never rest till he has found it. He has all the persistency of the Randolph nature. Not much chance of his succeeding, I am afraid, for the thief has had plenty of time—most likely has sent the picture to America. But if you should be questioned, my dear—which is not likely, as you do not even know the painting—if you should be, please remember that there is no connection between the two things. You must guard yourself, in talking about the family heirloom, not to allude to my little affair—not to break your word." Then she moved towards the door. "Now we will go down, and have a last chat." CHAPTER XX REVERSION TO A RUT BARBARA PRINGLE stood outside a garden gate in Midfell, interviewing Miss Robins. A black hat of no particular shape was jammed low upon Miss Pringle's forehead, and a brown blouse of no particular cut "topped" a short skirt of uncompromising apple-greenness. Miss Robins, standing hatless within the gate, had clothed herself in dust-colour, apparently with the aim of matching her own complexion, an aim in which she had succeeded, without resulting loveliness. But what signified looks to one at Miss Robins' mental altitude? Past this cottage, as past Burn Cottage, swept the busy stream, rustling musical murmurs, telling things unspeakable by human tongues, though not unreadable by human ears, if those ears are attuned and attent. The ears of Miss Robins and Miss Pringle were neither attent nor attuned. Each good lady was too well occupied with her own and her neighbours' concerns to listen to Nature's whispers. "No time to waste in such dawdling!" they would have said. "Too much time wasted in gossip for leisure to study the Divine poem!" would have been Colin's version.