By the way, the house will not be so
dull presently; for my son, Lord Heyton, and his newly-married wife are
coming to stay."

As he made the announcement, he checked a sigh and turned away. Celia
waited for a moment or two; the Marquess had sunk into a chair, his eyes
fixed on the great dog, which had thrown itself at his feet. It seemed
to Celia that his lordship had forgotten her.

"Good night, my lord," she said, softly.

He looked up with a start, rose, and opened the door for her, and, with
a courtly inclination of the head, bade her good night.

Now a strange thing happened. As Celia was crossing the hall, she
stopped and looked at the portrait before which the Marquess had been
standing; and she remembered how she had been struck by a fancied
resemblance to someone whom she could not trace. Her pause before the
picture was scarcely more than momentary, but she was startled by the
sound of footsteps, and, looking up with a half-frightened gaze, found
the Marquess standing beside her. His face was almost stern, his dark
eyes, so like those of the picture, were fixed on her, questioningly;
and there was just a suspicion of anger in the keenness of his regard.

"You are interested in that picture?" he said, in a dry voice.

"I--I----Yes," said Celia, telling herself that she had no cause for
fear, seeing that she had committed no crime.

"Why?" he demanded, curtly, and his tone was still dry and harsh.

Celia was silent for a moment; then she raised her eyes to his,
calmly--for what was there to fear, why should he be angry with her for
looking at the portrait?

"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 port