He thought nothing of it for a while, and having found his idea, went on writing.

But presently his eyes strayed again, and once more lit upon the misplaced piece of gilding.
He went over mechanically to adjust it, pondering his letter all the while.
"Why ever can't they hang things where they can be seen ?" said he as he drew back the curtain.
The last words dropped half-spoken from his lips, as he disclosed the portrait of a certain boy, flashing at him with his reckless eyes, and half-defying him out of the canvas.
Like Mr Armstrong, when he had encountered the picture a month ago, Roger Ingleton instinctively guessed in whose presence he stood.
The discovery had something in it both of a shock and a disappointment.
If this was really his elder brother, he was strangely different from what he had in fancy pictured him.

He had imagined him his own age, whereas this was a boy considerably his junior.

He had imagined him dark and grave, whereas this was fair and mocking; and he had imagined him amiable and sympathetic, whereas this was hostile and defiant.
Yet, for all that, Roger stood fascinated.

A chord deep in his nature thrilled as he said to himself, "My brother." He, the young man, felt himself captive to this imperious boy.