On an easel stood a masterly small portrait of Lord Dunstable as a young man, by Bastien Lepage; and not far from it--rather pushed into a corner--a sketch by Millais of a fair-haired boy, leaning against a pony.
By this time Doris was quivering both with excitement and fatigue.

She sank into a chair, and turned eagerly to the wine and biscuits with which Miss Field pursued her.

While she ate and drank, Lady Dunstable sat in a high chair observing her, one long and pointed foot crossed over the other, her black eyes alive with satiric interrogation, to which, however, she gave no words.
The wine was reviving.

Doris found her voice.

As the door closed on Miss Field, she bent forward:-- "Lady Dunstable, I didn't come here on my own account, and had there been time of course I should have given you notice.