"That," said Harding, "was my father."
Beatrice signified by a movement of her head that she had heard, for she was strongly interested in the back-ground of the picture. The wide lawn with its conventionally cut border of shrubbery stretched beyond the old-fashioned house until it ended at the edge of a lake, across which rounded masses of trees rolled up the side of a hill. All this was familiar; it reminded her of summer afternoons in England two or three years ago. Surely she had walked along that terrace then! She could remember the gleaming water, the solid, dark contour of the beechwood on the hill, and the calm beauty of the sunlit landscape that she glimpsed between massive scattered oaks. Then she started as she distinguished the tower of a church in the faded distance, its spires rising among the tall beech-trees.
"But this is certainly Ash Garth!" she cried.
"I never heard its name," Harding answered quietly.
Beatrice sat down with the photograph in her hand. Her curiosity was strongly roused, and she had a half disturbing sense of satisfaction.
"It looks as if your father had lived there," she said.
"Yes; I think it must have been his home."
"But the owner of Ash Garth is Basil Morel! It is a beautiful place. You come down from the bleak moorland into a valley through which a river winds, and the house stands among the beechwoods at the foot of the hill."
"The picture shows something of the kind," agreed Harding, watching her with a reserved smile.
Beatrice hesitated.