"Yes." His keen eyes flashed over her. "Is there anything extraordinary in a man's purchasing the portrait of his future wife?"
"No. Oh, no. Only I don't fancy Maryon painted it with any idea of selling it."
"And I didn't allow you to sit for it with any idea of his keeping it," retorted Roger grimly.
Nan remained silent, feeling that further discussion of the matter while he was in his present humour would serve no purpose. The curt, almost hectoring manner of his speech irritated her, while the jealousy from which it sprang made no appeal to her by way of an excuse, as it might have done had she loved him. She was glad when the evening came to an end, but she was still in a sore and angry frame of mind when she joined Rooke in the music-room the following day.
He speedily divined that something had occurred to ruffle her, and without endeavouring to elicit the cause—possibly he felt he could make a pretty good guess at it!—he set himself to amuse and entertain her. He was so far successful in his efforts that before very long she had almost forgotten her annoyance of the previous evening and was deep in a discussion regarding the work of a certain modern composer.
Engrossed in argument, neither Maryon nor Nan noticed, the hum of a motor approaching up the drive, and when the door of the room was thrown open to admit Roger Trenby neither of them was able to repress a slight start. Instantly a dark look of anger overspread Roger's face as he advanced into the room.
"Good morning, Rooke," he said, nodding briefly but not offering his hand. "So the portrait is finished at last, I see."
Nan glanced across at him anxiously. There was something in his manner that filled her with a quick sense of apprehension.
"Not quite," replied Rooke easily. "I'm afraid we've been idling this morning. There are still a few more touches I should like to add."
Roger crossed the room, and, standing in front of the picture, surveyed it in silence.