“Well?” echoed Mrs. Davenant. “Don’t you see? Look again. The very image! It is himself come to life again; it is Ralph Davenant turned woman!” she exclaimed.
And before Una could glance at the glass a second time Mrs. Davenant threw it aside.
“Am I so like?” said Una, with a smile. “How mysterious! And that is so beautiful a face.”
“Beautiful eyes, and you are——” said Mrs. Davenant, but stopped in time, warned by Una’s frank, questioning gaze. “If you like to look at portraits,” she said, “there is an album there; look over that.”
Una took up the album and turned over its pages; suddenly she stopped, and the color flew to her face.
With unconcealed eagerness she came toward Mrs. Davenant with the open album in her hand.
“Look!” she said; “who is that?”
“That,” said Mrs. Davenant, peering at it, “that is—Jack Newcombe.”
“Jack Newcombe,” said Una, breathlessly. “You know him?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Davenant, with a sigh. “Poor Jack! Shut the book, my dear.”