illogically, the frown persisted.

As if conscious of his scrutiny Gillian turned and met his
searching gaze. The colour flooded her face and she pushed the
dog aside and rose hastily to her feet. Shyness supervened again
and she was thankful for the arrival of Miss Craven, who was
breathless and apologetic.

"Late as usual! I shall be late when the last trump sounds. But
this time it was really not my fault. Mrs. Appleyard descended
upon me!--our old housekeeper, Gillian--and her tongue has
wagged for a solid hour by the clock. I am now _au fait_ with
everything that has happened at the Towers since I was here
last--do your ears burn, Peter?--metaphorically she has dragged
me at her heels from garrets to cellars and back to the garrets
again. She is pathetically pleased to have the house open once
more."

Still talking she led the way to the dining room. It was an
immense room, panelled like most of the house, the table an oasis
on a desert of Persian carpet, a huge fireplace predominating, and
some of the more valuable family portraits on the walls.

As Miss Craven entered she looked instinctively for the portrait
of her brother, which since his death had hung--following a family
custom--in a panel over the high carved mantelpiece. But it had
been removed and for it had been substituted a beautiful painting
of Barry's mother. She stopped abruptly in the middle of a
sentence. "An innovation?" she murmured to her nephew, with her
shrewd eyes on his face.