away to an exhibition, having been lent by Mr. Forestier, since dead; and during the time of its absence Sir Ian had not visited Riding Wood.
When her husband began his wanderings round the hall, Lady Hereward seized the opportunity to open her vanity box, and look at herself in the tiny mirror inside. She knew perfectly well what Sir Ian's goal was, and that, having reached it, he would not be likely to move until he heard Mrs. Forestier's footsteps. She knew perfectly well, too, why he was drawn to the portrait, and the fascination it had for him annoyed her extremely; still, as she scorned to refer to the subject, the fact remained that he would look at the portrait, and she might as well avail herself of the three or four minutes during which his back was turned. Never for an hour did she forget that she was a year older than Ian, or cease to yearn for her lost youth, or abandon the struggle to keep its semblance. Never for a moment did she fall into the error of letting her husband or her friends guess that she was engaged in a struggle. Nobody dreamed how unremitting were the efforts this Madonna-faced lady made to retain the softness and smoothness and slimness which belonged to her past. To be sure, she was known to carry a vanity box, but nobody ever saw her peep into it, and her fondness for the little gold case was counted as one with her devotion to jewelry. This was her only selfish hobby, and though
