"I'm afraid he's worried about _her_," said the landlady, when she
had lit the gas, and stood with Warburton surveying the picture. "He
can't find a model good-looking enough. I say to Mr. Franks why not
make it the portrait of his own young lady? I'm sure _she's_
good-looking enough for anything and--"

Whilst speaking, the woman had turned to look at a picture on the
wall. Words died upon her lips; consternation appeared in her face;
she stood with finger extended. Warburton, glancing where he was
accustomed to see the portrait of Rosamund Elvan, also felt a shock.
For, instead of the face which should have smiled upon him, he saw
an ugly hole in the picture, the canvas having been violently cut,
or rent with a blow.

"Hallo! What the deuce has he been doing?"

"Well, I never!" exclaimed the landlady. "It must be himself that's
done it! What does _that_ mean now, I wonder?"

Warburton was very uneasy. He no longer doubted that Franks had
purposely avoided him this afternoon.

"I daresay," he added, with a pretence of carelessness, "the
portrait had begun to vex him. He's often spoken of it
discontentedly, and talked of painting another. It wasn't very
good."

Accepting, or seeming to accept this explanation, the landlady
withdrew, and Will paced thoughtfully about the floor. He was back
in Switzerland, in the valley which rises to the glacier of Trient.