Celia Craig came back with the album. Berkley sprang to relieve
her of the big book and a box full of silhouettes, miniatures, and
daguerreotypes. They placed the family depository upon the table
and then bent over it together.

Ailsa remained standing by the window, looking steadily at nothing,
a burning sensation in both cheeks.

At intervals, through the intensity of her silence, she heard
Celia's fresh, sweet laughter, and Berkley's humorous and engaging
voice. She glanced sideways at the back of his dark curly head
where it bent beside Celia's over the album. What an insolently
reckless head it was! She thought that she had never before seen
the back of any man's head so significant of character--or the want
of it. And the same quality--or the lack of it--now seemed to her
to pervade his supple body, his well-set shoulders, his voice,
every movement, every feature--something everywhere about him that
warned and troubled.

[Illustration: "What an insolently reckless head it was!"]

Suddenly the blood burnt her cheeks with a perfectly
incomprehensible desire to see his face again. She heard her
sister-in-law saying:

"We Paiges and Berkleys are kin to the Ormonds and the Earls of
Ossory. The Estcourts, the Paiges, the Craigs, the Lents, the
Berkleys, intermarried a hundred years ago. . . . My grandmother
knew yours, but the North is very strange in such matters. . . .
Why did you never before come?"