unusual. "Like a proud sort of Madonna," the old man described her to himself as he went toward the rose-garden, to tell Mrs. Forestier that her luncheon guests had arrived, a little earlier than expected.
There was a portrait—one among many on the oak-panelled walls—which for some reason fascinated Sir Ian Hereward; and whenever he came to Riding Wood, he always stood in front of it, even if he had to find some excuse for doing so, looking up at the painted, unsmiling face with a curious, reluctant interest, as if he saw it for the first time.
It was not necessary to invent an excuse now, since he was alone with his wife, waiting for their hostess to appear; nevertheless he walked about the hall a little, before making his way to the portrait, picking up a book or two on the fat-legged Jacobean table in the middle of the flagged floor, and then moving on by slow degrees, pausing here and there to glance at some other portrait. This was not a deliberate plan carried out to cloak his real intention, unless from himself, for he had no idea that his wife knew or cared about his interest in the picture; yet he was always drawn to it, in spite of a certain desire to resist. He tried to persuade himself that he thought of that portrait as he thought of others in the hall at Riding Wood, merely as a fine piece of work by a great artist. It had been painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and was a family treasure. Once a few years ago, it had gone
