My lord turned to him. “I crave your pardon. But does it need an answer? I thought I had made the situation between the Tremaines and the Rensleys clear to all. It is not in the least strange that I should not recognise the hand. I had never seen it before.”
Mr Brent bowed in a non-committal manner, and drew a miniature from the case before him. “Do you know this face, sir?”
“I ought to,” said my lord. “But do put it away again, dear sir! I’ve not the smallest wish to gaze upon my late brother’s image.”
Old Mr Clapperly gave a dry cackle of laughter. Young Mr Clapperly looked reproachful, and said: “I believe, gentlemen, we cannot regard that as conclusive. The late Viscount was well known. Show him the other one.”
My lord held a miniature of a dark lady at arm’s length, and surveyed it critically. “When was this done?” he inquired. “It quite fails to convey an impression of her charm.”
“You know the face, sir?”
“Dorothea,” said my lord. “At least, so I suppose, but it is very bad. More like my aunt Johanna. There is a far better portrait of her in the gallery of Barham.” He showed the miniature to Mr Fontenoy. “You knew my sister, sir. Do you agree that this does her less than justice?”
“Miss Tremaine had certainly more animation than is shown here,” Mr Fontenoy answered.
My lord gave back the miniature. There was a gleam in his eye. “But why not produce a picture of myself?” he suggested.
Mr Fontenoy, and old Mr Clapperly looked sharply. Rensley said triumphantly: — “You make a slip there, my clever gentleman! There is no picture of you!”