Smithfield looked thoughtful.
"And what was it a picture of, sir?"
"Of a lady."
"In a black lace cap, and she with white hair, sir?"
"No," said Crane, "she was young and lovely, in a ball dress and a wreath. You must remember it. It was here yesterday."
Smithfield shook his head blankly.
"No, sir," he said, "I can't rightly say that I remember it, but I'll inquire for it."
Crane swore with an uncontrollable irritation—irritation at Smithfield for being so stupid, irritation that he himself had been so careless as to leave the picture about among a houseful of unknown servants.
He was not distracted even by the sight of Cora coming downstairs, looking very workmanlike in her habit with her hat well down over her brows, and her boots, over which Brindlebury had evidently expended himself, showing off her slender feet.
They breakfasted alone; but Burton's mind ran on the loss of the miniature, and he did not really recover his temper until he had mounted Cora, found all the straps of her skirt, adjusted her stirrup, loosened the curb for her, and finally swung himself up on his own hunter, a big ugly chestnut.