"It is a very beautiful picture," she said.
The Marquess's brows lifted, and he bent his head as if apologizing for
his curtness.
"That is true," he said, more gently. "It is one of the best in the
collection. And your interest is only an artistic one?"
Celia had only to say "Yes," and to escape; but she was not given to
equivocation; moreover, her high spirit had resented the anger and
suspicion in his manner, for which, she felt, he had no justification.
"Not only, my lord," she said, as quietly as before; "but the first time
I saw it, I thought that the face of the portrait was like that of
someone I knew."
She was startled by the sudden change in his demeanour. His brows came
down again, his eyes grew piercing, his lips stern.
"Like whom?" he demanded, shortly.
"I don't know," she said, with a slight shrug; "that is why the portrait
interests me so. If I could trace the resemblance, I should--well, not
be so bothered by it."
The Marquess paced to the fire and held his hands to it, as if he had
become cold suddenly.
"Strange!" he said, musingly, and with an air of indifference, which
Celia felt to be assumed. "Is the man you think resembles the portrait
young--or old?"
As he put the question, a sudden flood of light seemed to illumine
Celia's mind; it was as if she had been gazing perplexedly on a statue
swathed in its covering, and as if the covering had been swept away and
the statue revealed. She knew now that the face in the portrait
resembled that of the young man on whom her thoughts were always
dwelling. The resemblance was faint; but it existed in her mind quite
plainly. The revelation brought the blood to her face, then she became
pale again. The Marquess, looking over his shoulder, waited for her
answer.
"I remember now, my lord----" she began.
"Young or old?" he said, not loudly, but with a quiet insistence.
"Young," replied Celia.
To her surprise and relief, the Marquess gave a little dry, almost
contemptuous, laugh; and as he turned to her, with his hands folded
behind his back, there was a faint smile on his face.
"Who is he?" he asked.
"I don't know," replied Celia.
"You don't know!" said his lordship, raising his brows. "Pardon me, I
don't understand."
Celia stood before him, her hands clasped together in a clasp that,
light at first, became tighter; her eyes were downcast, a slight fold
came between her brows; for an inappreciable second or two, she lost
consciousness of the great hall, the tall, bent figure silhouetted
against the fire; she was back in Brown's Buildings, in that
poverty-stricken room, and she saw the young man's head lying on his
outstretched arm, a revolver in his hand.