It was Al'mah's portrait in the costume she had worn over three years ago, the night when Rudyard Byng had rescued her from the flames.

He had bought it then.

It had been unpacked again by Gleg, and put in the place it had occupied for a day or two before he had gone out of England to do his country's work--and to face the bitterest disillusion of his life; to meet the heaviest blow his pride and his heart had ever known.
"So that's the lady, is it ?" he said, musingly, to the boy, who nodded assent.
"Go and have a good look at it," urged Stafford.
The boy did so.

"It's 'er--done up for the opery," he declared.
"Well, Lulu Luckingham is all right, then.

That lady will be good to her." "Right.