Tea being over, the older lady suggested that their host should allow them to see some of the interesting things with which his house abounded, and declared she would lead the prowl. Mark had already made the acquaintance of some of these treasures.
"I was just saying to Mr. Morpeth," he remarked, "that in this Indian house he had carried out the chief function of an old country mansion at home—that of being the receptacle for storing things one cannot carry about with one in a roving life."
"Yes, that's what the Colonel's always lamenting," broke in Mrs. Fellowes. "There can be no relic-gathering in the Anglo-Indian's lot. And after all, these possessions are the making of a family—collections of old letters, heirloom portraits, mementos of persons and events—why, one can't keep anything of the kind in India! I once had a lock of Prince Charlie's yellow hair—purported to be so, anyhow—among my treasures. The poochees ate it in one week! No, all that sacred storing of precious things is denied to us poor wanderers over the great restless ocean," wound up Mrs. Fellowes sadly.
The delightful shelves of books seemed to be calling Hester's attention, and Mark Cheveril was in his element introducing her to some of his old favourites of which she had only heard from him. Presently Mr. Morpeth was called to the verandah to see two young men who had come in to consult him about some final arrangements for the coming meeting, and Mrs. Fellowes went to converse with the parrot, who always claimed her attention on her visits to Freyville.
Mark and Hester, continuing their explorations, came upon a shelf among the rows of books which seemed to be given up to miniatures and daguerrotypes. One of these was the portrait of a young man with a rarely beautiful face which caught Hester's eye.
"I feel sure this is a portrait of Mr. Morpeth when he was young," she remarked, after scanning it.
"If so he has sadly changed," returned Mark, as he looked at the young spirited face with bright, dauntless-looking eyes, and compared them with the sad, meditative grey orbs into which he had been looking before the ladies joined them.
"And this, I suppose, must be his sister! She looks too young for his mother. Pretty face, isn't it?" said Hester, handing Mark another old daguerrotype in its leathern case.
"Superficially pretty, perhaps," returned Mark. "No, I don't admire the face," he added, and was about to replace it on the shelf without further comment, when Hester said:
"Let me see it again! It reminds me curiously of some girl—I think—I've seen either here or at home. Those eyes look familiar and the shape of that nose—I know who it's like. It has a look of my husband! How odd! I'm sure he isn't girlish-looking," she added with a laugh.