"It is not my portrait, Lizzie."
"Whose then? Do you know her? But of course you do. What lovely eyes and hair! It is a face I could never forget if I had once seen it. Who is she?"
The expression of hopeless love in Mrs. Lenoir's eyes as she gazed upon the picture was pitiful to see.
"It is a portrait painted from a heart's memory, Lizzie."
"Painted by you?"
"Yes."
"How beautifully it is done! I always knew you were a lady. And I've been told you can speak languages. I was a little girl when I heard the story of a poor foreigner dying in this street, who gave you, in a foreign language, his dying message to his friends abroad. That is true, is it not, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"It is quite true. It would have been better for me had I been poor and ignorant, and had I not been what you suppose me to have been--a lady. Lizzie, if you love me, leave me!"
"Mrs. Lenoir, is there no hope of happiness for you?"
"Have I not already told you? I have a hope, a wild, unreasoning hope, springing from the bitterest sorrow that ever fell to woman's lot. Apart from that, my only desire is to live and die in peace. And now, Lizzie, goodnight."