"You are the leader here, Rames. Very well, we'll see."
Mr. Devenish turned to his neighbor. It was Cynthia, and even to her he talked for a little while with reserve. Rames had been correct in his diagnosis of the man. A good-humored fighter as a rule, he lost his good-humor when the attack was made upon his flank. He had begun his own political career with side-shots at his leaders from the front-bench below the gangway; but he did not rejoice when the same disposition of battle was planned against himself. However, luncheon and the proximity of a beautiful woman appeased him as they should. He began to talk freely; his smile lost its grimness, his natural geniality flashed bright.
"Tell me one thing," he said suddenly.
"It depends--" said Cynthia warily.
"Very well then. Tell me another thing. Why does your portrait hang in this house?"
Cynthia's cheeks flamed. She looked swiftly across Devenish at Colonel Challoner. But he was giving no heed to them.
"Do you think it's like me?" she asked.
"It is you," he replied.
"No one else has noticed the resemblance all this week," said Cynthia.
Mr. Devenish glanced along the table.