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“Sohere you are!”

But the light note of Miss Babraham’s greeting changed to a quick concern as a feminine eye saw at a glance that June was looking “done.”

“Now don’t get up, please. I am going to be quite angry with myself if your walk has made you over-tired.”

June, a new shyness upon her, which the presence of Sir Arthur made much worse, found it very difficult to speak.

“I hope you are cultivating a taste for chicken and new laid eggs,” said the kindly gentleman. “And for a glass of wine to your meals—which I always say is what has made Old England the country she is.” Finding his jolly laugh was less effective than usual, he pointed to the Hoodoo in the tactful hope of putting an embarrassed girl at her ease. “There’s an old friend I’m sure you recognize.” June’s distress, however, grew rapidly worse and Sir Arthur made a fresh cast. “I’m not sure all the same,” he said to William in a laughing aside, “that the old fellow can be allowed to stay here. Tell me, what is your candid opinion?”

“We’ve been wondering, sir, if he wouldn’t look better in the garden.”

Miss Babraham caught gaily at the suggestion. “The very place for the jar of Knossos. And perhaps Miss June and Mr. William will plant a myrtle in it.”

“A myrtle,” said Sir Arthur. “In that chap—a myrtle?” He plucked at his moustache and looked at the laughing Laura. “Why—pray—a myrtle?”

“Papa, how dense you are!”

A hit clean and fair, which after a very little thought Sir Arthur was man enough to own. His one excuse, and a poor one, was that in certain things the sex to which he had the misfortune to belong, was notoriously “slow in the uptake.”

It was now William’s turn to acclaim the idea. Blushing deeply said that quaint and whimsical young man: “Yes, Miss Babraham, with your permission we will plant a myrtle in the jar of Knossos.”

In the laugh which followed June did not share; just now her feeling was that she would never be able to laugh again.

Sir Arthur, still tactful, now conceived it to be his duty to cheer the poor girl up. “By the way,” he said, “has my daughter told you what we propose to do with your Van Roon? Of course with your permission.”

June simply longed for the power to say that it was not for her to give the permission as the Van Roon was not hers. But she was living just now in a kind of dream in which action and speech had no part. The only thing she could do was to listen passively to the voice of Sir Arthur, while it leisurely unfolded a tale of fairyland.

“I must tell you,” he said, “subject to your approval—always, of course, subject tothat—we have formed a sort of committee to deal with this picture of yours. It has given rise to a rather curious position. We think—three or four of us—that it ought to be acquired for the nation; but of course there’s the question of price.If the work is put up at auction, it may fetch more than we should feel justified in paying. Sentiment of course; but nowadays sentiment plays a big part in these matters. On the other hand, having regard to the obscurity of its origin, it might be knocked down for considerably less than it is intrinsically worth. All the same we are quite convinced that it is a very choice example of a great master, and that the place for it is the National Gallery, where another Van Roon is badly needed. Now I hope you see the dilemma. If the nation enters the market a definite buyer, the thing may soar to a preposterous sum. At the same time, we don’t want the nation to acquire it for less than its real value. So the question in a nutshell is, will you accept a private arbitration or do you prefer to run the risk of getting comparatively little in the hope of obtaining an extra ten thousand pounds or so?”

June followed the argument as closely as she could, and at the end of it burst into wild tears.

“The picture is not mine,” she sobbed. “It doesn’t belong to me.”

It was a moment of keen embarrassment. Sir Arthur, who had doubted from the first, was hardly to be blamed for beginning to doubt again. Such an outburst was the oddest confirmation of his first suspicion, which conspiring Circumstance had enabled him perhaps too easily to forget. But Laura’s faith was quite unshaken. For her the question of ownership had been settled once and for all. The poor thing was overwrought, overdriven; it was so like the tactless father of hers, to worry the girl with all kinds of tiresome details when he should have known that she was not strong enough to grapple with them.

“Come, papa,” said Laura Babraham with reproof in a clear grey eye. “If we don’t go at once and look at that herbaceous border we shall certainly be late for luncheon.”

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