Nestley.
"Just slightly," replied Nestley, coolly. "But his madness has a good deal of method in it. He's got queer ideas about the re-incarnation of the soul--but we've all queer ideas more or less."
"Particularly more," observed Beaumont, indolently. "Are you coming back, Nestley? I'll be glad of a companion."
Nestley hesitated. He did not like Beaumont and mistrusted him. Still, there was a wonderful fascination about the man which few could resist, and in spite of his dislike Nestley rapidly found himself falling once more under the old spell of that suave, cynical manner.
"I don't mind," he said, carelessly, "particularly as I want to give you a message from the Squire."
"To me?" said Beaumont in surprise. "What about?"
"A picture. The squire wants his portrait taken, and----"
"You thought of me," said Beaumont, with a cold smile; "how charming you are, my dear Nestley. I'll be delighted to paint the Squire, he's a Rembrandtian study, full of light and shade and wrinkles."
"Where are you going to, Mr. Blake?" asked Nestley, abruptly turning to the young man and eyeing him keenly.
"To the Grange," replied Blake carelessly, "to see the Squire. Good morning, gentlemen," and with a cool nod, the young man strolled away in the direction of Garsworth Grange.
Nestley stood looking after him oddly.
"To see the Squire," he repeated. "Yes and Una Challoner."
"Ah," said Beaumont cynically. "You've seen that, my dear fellow."
"Yes. Do you know Una Challoner loves him?"
"Not exactly. I know he loves Una Challoner."
"She returns it," said Nestley gloomily. "I found that out from her manner this morning."
Beaumont smiled and looked strangely at the downcast face of the doctor.
"I understand," he said, lighting a fresh cigarette.
"Understand what?" asked Nestley angrily.
"That you also love Una Challoner."
"Absurd, I've only seen her twice."
"Nevertheless----"
"What?"
"Oh nothing, nothing," replied Beaumont airily. "I'll tell you all about it in a week."
Nestley did not reply, but stood silently looking at the ground, on seeing which, Beaumont drew his arm within his own, with a gay laugh.
"Come along," he said cheerfully, "we'll walk back to Garsworth, and you can tell me all about the Squire and his picture."
CHAPTER VII.
THE HOUSEKEEPER.
Like a lone mountain white with virgin snow,
Which holds within its breast eternal fire
This woman cold and pale with face of woe
Yet feels at heart an unappeased desire.

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