know the type?"

"Ye-es," said Mrs. Friend. "I think I remember--before the war--at
Agnew's? My husband took me there once." The tone was hesitating. The
little lady was clearly not learned in English art. But Lord Buntingford
liked her the better for not pretending.

"Of course. There's always an Emma, when Old Masters are on show. Romney
painted her forty or fifty times. We've got one ourselves--a sketch my
grandfather bought. If you'll come into the hall I'll show it you."

She followed obediently and, in a rather dark corner of the hall, Lord
Buntingford pointed out an unfinished sketch of Lady Hamilton--one of the
many Bacchante variants--the brown head bent a little under the ivy
leaves in the hair, the glorious laughing eyes challenging the spectator.

"Is she like that?" asked Mrs. Friend, wondering.

"Who?--my ward?" laughed Lord Buntingford. "Well, you'll see."

He walked away, and Mrs. Friend stayed a few minutes more in front of the
picture--thinking--and with half an ear listening for the sound of a
motor. She was full of tremors and depression. "I was a fool to come--a
fool to accept!" she thought. The astonishing force of the sketch--of the
creature sketched--intimidated her. If Helena Pitstone were really like
that--"How can she ever put up with me? She'll just despise me. It will
be only natural. And then if things go wrong, Lord Buntingford will find
out I'm no good--and I shall have to go!"

She gave a long sigh, lifting her eyes a little--against her will--to the