"I think," he said at last, "that I'm satisfied with it as it is. . . .
It will look very well in the gallery at Trenby."
Rooke's eyes narrowed suddenly.
"The portrait isn't for sale," he observed.
"Of course not—to anyone other than myself," replied Roger composedly.
"Not even to you, I'm afraid," answered Rooke. "I painted it for the great pleasure it gave me and not from any mercenary motive."
Nan, watching the two men as they fenced, saw a sudden flash in Roger's eyes and his under jaw thrust itself out in a manner with which she was only too familiar.
"Then may I ask what you intend to do with it?" he demanded. There was something in the dead level of his tone which suggested a white-hot anger forcibly held in leash.
"I thought—with Nan's permission—of exhibiting it first," said Rooke placidly. "After that, there is a wall in my house at Westminster where it would hang in an admirable light."
The cool insolence of his manner acted like a lighted torch to gunpowder. Roger swung round upon him furiously, his hands clenched, his forehead suddenly gnarled with knotted veins.
"By God, Rooke!" he exclaimed. "You go too far! You will exhibit
Nan's portrait . . . you will hang it in your house! . . . And you
think I'll stand by and tolerate such impertinence? Understand . . .
Nan's portrait hangs at Trenby Hall—or nowhere!"