"The man came from England; and if you can send us out more of that type we shall be satisfied." Then she and the questioner became conscious of the awkward silence that had fallen upon the rest.

They belonged to the dales, and they glanced covertly at Weston, who was gazing at the picture, purple in face, and with a very hard look in his eyes.

Ida guessed that it was the scarred workman's hands and the track-grader's old blue shirt and tattered duck that had hurt his very curious pride.

Still, it was evident that he could face the situation.
"Yes," he said, a trifle hoarsely, "it's a portrait--an excellent one.
In fact, as some of you are quite aware, it's my son." He rose, and crossing a strip of lawn sat down heavily near Ida.

The latter, looking around, saw Arabella's satisfied smile suddenly subside; but the next moment Weston, leaning forward, laid his hand roughly on her arm.
"Why Clarence permitted that portrait to be painted I don't quite understand, though he was fond of flying in the face of all ideas of decency," he said.