"You know the pictures, but this collection generally interested you, and I have added a few examples of a good French period since you were last here," he said.
Mrs. Keith sat down. She was fond of miniatures, and though she would have preferred to accompany her host she had kept him away from Mrs. Chudleigh since their arrival and thought she must be content with that. She seldom overdid anything and had no wish to make her object too plain; Geoffrey Challoner was by no means a fool. As she expected, Mrs. Chudleigh found an opportunity of joining him after a time and diverted his attention from Mrs. Foster, who left him to talk to his sister. Mrs. Keith watched the manoeuvre, which was cleverly carried out, with ironical amusement, though she was troubled by a faint uneasiness. She felt that her old friend was threatened, but she could not see where the danger lay, and, sitting with the miniatures before her, she tried to formulate her suspicions.
In the first place, she had unwisely given Mrs. Chudleigh to understand that it was doubtful whether Richard Blake had merited his disgrace. Then the former had met Lieutenant Walters, who had fought in the frontier action, and had gained his confidence. It was possible that she had led him on to talk about the affair with injudicious freedom, and now she had met Greythorpe and seemed desirous of cultivating his acquaintance. All this had an ominous look, because the woman was ambitious and scheming, besides being in love with Sedgwick, who was something of an adventurer. She would no doubt seize upon any opportunity of securing his promotion.
Margaret's Keith's suspicions were justified, for Mrs. Chudleigh was then cleverly clearing the ground for future action. She had some knowledge of art and the row of family portraits, hung between suits of armour and trophies of Eastern weapons, interested her, while Challoner was gratified by the way she listened as he spoke of them. One or two were by well-known artists, and the faces of the old Challoners, some of whom wore wigs and rich court dress, and some obsolete uniforms, fixed her attention. The resemblance between them all was recognizable, and she thought the family strain must be unusually strong. They had obviously been stern, masterful men, practical rather than imaginative and not likely to be troubled by any emotional weaknesses. Then she glanced at the picture of a young woman with a face of singularly delicate beauty. Its expression was gentle and pensive.
"My wife; she died in Simla twenty years ago," said Challoner gravely, and passing on, stopped before a water-colour drawing of his son.
It had been painted when Bertram was young, and he had his mother's dreamy look. Mrs. Chudleigh missed the hardness of expression that marked the Challoners.
"A sketch rather than a finished study, but there's talent in it," she remarked. "The subject's temperament has been cleverly seized; I have met Captain Challoner."
"My wife's work," said the Colonel. "Although I value it, I have thought she was mistaken in this drawing. My son is a man of action, and this is the face of a sentimentalist."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Chudleigh; "his mother should know him best."
"Undoubtedly," agreed Challoner, who looked disturbed at the suggestion. "Still, perhaps, in painting a portrait the artist may be misled into unduly emphasizing some single, passing phase of the sitter's character. A lad's moods are variable; his nature has not had time to harden into its mould. I imagine this is what has happened, because if the likeness is faithful, my son has changed since then."