Kingcote rose, but with her hand still in his. He could not release it. She, with eyes turned upwards to regard him, her face flushed, her throat quivering, was as loth to be severed from his grasp. Instead of moving away, he bent and put his lips to her forehead. Then the rose-hue clothed her with maidenhood, her head fell, and he felt the pulse at her wrist leap like flame.
“Will you fetch me the desk?” she asked, without meeting his look.
He fetched it, and with a key from her pocket Isabel opened it. Below other papers she found an envelope, and from this took a photograph.
“Will you look at that?” she said, holding it to him.
Kingcote’s face expressed recognition.
“This,” he said, “is, I suppose, Miss Warren’s father? The resemblance is very strong.”
“It is a portrait of Mr. Clarendon,” was her answer, given in a tone of such cold self-command that Kingcote turned to look at her with a movement of surprise.
“Mr. Clarendon?”
“I will put it away again, if you please.”
He let her do so, and removed the case. When he drew near her, Isabel regarded him with a passionless face, and pointed to the chair he had risen from.