“What, you are cold?” she whispered. “Come to the fire; you can pretend to be pointing out the carving of the mantel to me.”
Agnes shook her head and smiled. She knew that just at that moment she had not strength to walk to the fireplace, and she did not under-estimate her own powers; when, however, the butler appeared at the door, and Claude came in front of her, she was able to rise and walk into the diningroom by his side.
After dinner Clare showed the greatest possible interest in the drawing-rooms and their contents, and Agnes, who was, of course, familiar with everything, told her much about the furniture and the pictures. For a century and a half the Westwoods had been a wealthy family, and many treasures had been accumulated by the successive owners of the Court. But there was one picture on an easel which Agnes had not seen before. It was a portrait of Dick Westwood, and it had been painted by a great painter.
Agnes and Clare were standing opposite to it when Claude and Sir Percival entered the room; they had only remained for a few minutes over their wine. Claude came behind Agnes, saying:
“You did not see that until now? I am sure that it is an excellent likeness, and the face is not, after all, so different from poor Dick's as I remember him.”
“It is a perfect likeness,” said Agnes. “But I cannot understand how you got it. It is not the sort of portrait that could be painted only from a photograph.”
“He did not tell you that he was giving sittings to the painter when he was last in London?” said Claude.
“He never mentioned it,” said Agnes.
“I brought it with me from the painter's studio the day before yesterday,” said Claude. “He wrote to me the day before I left for London, explaining that Dick had given him a few sittings in May, and had promised to return to the studio in July. He said he should like me to see the portrait in its unfinished condition. Judge of my feelings when I found myself facing that fine work. I carried it away with me at once.” Then he turned to Clare, saying, “Look at it; it is the portrait of the best fellow that ever lived—that ever died by the hand of a wretch whom he had never injured—a wretch who is alive to-day.”
Agnes moved away from the picture with Sir Percival; but Clare remained by the side of Claude looking at the face on the easel.