In the winter they sat at this end of the room, but in the summer at the other end, where a French window opened onto the Rose Garden that centred around an ancient sundial.
The Van Dycks were, Crisa thought as she looked up at them, so exquisitely painted and so beautiful in themselves, that it seemed impossible that her father could even contemplate having them removed and taken out of the house.
The walls of The Manor had been their background for centuries and it was as if they belonged there as much as her father did himself.
Her eyes did not miss how Van Dyck with his genius had depicted the elegant drapery of Charlotte Royden’s gown and his inimitable touch in showing the long thin fingers of her husband.
In the background of both pictures stood The Manor, looking just as it did
