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lovely she was, Philip thought, in her yellow satin dinner gown. No other woman could compare to her.
    The conversation hinged on steeplechasing, on which subject the old Marquis and his son-in-law were in perfect accord. Neither of them took any interest in the Army, nor did Corrigan Court, who held himself somewhat aloof, as though he existed on a more intellectual plane. The gentlemen remained in the dining room and drank a good deal, for the port was excellent. On the way to the drawing-room with her hostess, Adeline stopped in amazement before a picture that hung against the dark paneling of the hall. The other paintings were of men in hunting clothes, velvet court dress, or in armor. But this portrait was of a little girl of eight, her flower-like face set off by a wreath of auburn hair. Adeline exclaimed, in a loud voice: —
    “Why, it’s me! And what am I doing here, I should like to know, Biddy Court!”
    Biddy Court hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Then she said: —
    “It’s Corry’s. Your father owed him money and he gave him the portrait in payment. Not that it covered the debt — far from it! Come along, Adeline, do! It’s dreadfully draughty here.”
    But Adeline stood transfixed. She snatched up a lighted candle that stood on the top of a chest and held it so that its beams lighted the little face.
    “How beautiful I was!” she cried. “Oh, the beautiful face of me! Oh, the shame to my father that he should have given such a treasure to Corry Court! It’s enough to make me cry my eyes out!” She turned furiously to her cousin. “What was the debt?”
    “I don’t know,” returned Bridget, “except that it was double what the portrait is worth.”
    “Then it must be a fortune, indeed, for the portrait was painted by one of the greatest artists living!”“You are welcome to the picture,” said Bridget, “if only you will pay the debt.”
    “I’ll pay no debts but my own! But, oh, I do so want this picture. ’T will be a lovely thing to take out to Canada and hang beside my new portrait — the one I’ve told you of.”
    “I suppose you’ll go on having portraits of yourself till you’re a hundred! Ah, I wish I could see the
last
one! It’s a raving beauty you’ll be
then
, Adeline.”
    “I shall be on the face of the earth, which is more than you will be!”
    Still carrying the lighted candle, she flew back along the hall and flung open the door of the dining room. The four men were talking in quiet tones, the firelight throwing a peaceful glow upon them, the candles burning low. The decanter of port in the hand of Lord Killiekeggan trembled a little, as he replenished his glass.
    “Oh, but it’s a queer father you are!” cried Adeline, fixing her eyes on Renny Court. “To give away the portrait of your own child for a paltry debt, not worth the gilt frame on it! There I was, walking down the hall in my innocence, when suddenly I spied it hanging on the wall and it all but cried out in shame at being there. The candle all but fell out of my hand in my shame. Oh, well do I remember when my mother took me to Dublin to have it painted and the way the great artist gave me flowers and sweets to amuse me and the sweet little necklace on me that my grandmother gave me! Oh, Grandpapa, did you know that my father had done such a thing?”
    “Is the girl mad?” asked Killiekeggan, turning to his son-in-law.
    “No, no — just in a temper.” He spoke sternly to Adeline. “Come now — enough of this! The picture is not worth this to-do.”
    “Not worth it!” she cried. “’Tis little you know of its value! Why, when I told the London artist the name of the great man who had painted me in childhood, he said he would gladly journey all the way to County Meath to gaze on the portrait!”
    Corrigan Court asked abruptly — “And what was the name of the great artist, Adeline?”
    Her lips fell apart. She stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment. She pressed her fingers to her brow