“I seldom smoke,” Wingrave answered.
“If only we had had the slightest idea of your coming,” Miss Harrison said for the tenth time, “we would have made more adequate preparations. The wine cellar, at least, could have been opened. I allowed Mr. and Mrs. Tresfarwin to go for their holiday only yesterday, and the cellars, of course, are never touched.”
“Your claret was excellent,” Wingrave assured her.
“I am quite sure,” Miss Harrison said, “that claret from the local grocer is not what you are accustomed to—”
“My dear madam,” Wingrave protested, “I seldom touch wine. Show me which picture it is, Juliet, that you—ah!”
She had led him to the end of the gallery and stopped before what seemed to be a plain oak cupboard surrounded by a massive frame. She looked at him half fearfully.
“You want to see that picture?” he asked.
“If I might.”
He drew a bunch of keys from his pocket and calmly selected one. It was a little rusty, but the cupboard turned at once on its hinges. A woman’s face smiled down upon them, dark and splendid, from the glowing touch of a great painter. Juliet studied it eagerly, and then stole a sidelong glance at the man by her side. He was surveying it critically and without any apparent emotion.
“Herkomer’s, I think,” he remarked. “Quite one of his best.”