"He is very handsome," said Celia. "I suppose that is why one feels so sorry for him."
She moved away from the picture as she spoke; but presently, as if drawn by it, she returned to it.
"The picture interests you?" said Mrs. Dexter, with a smile. "That is always the way with us women, my dear. It is always the wild and wicked men who attract us."
"Oh, but that's a libel, surely," said Celia. "No; I think you are right. But how foolish of us, if it is true."
She turned away and went towards the great fireplace where the logs were now burning; but after a moment or two, as she stood with her foot on the fender, she looked again over her shoulder at the picture.
"It is very strange," she said, "but I have a curious feeling that I have seen someone very like—no, not very like, but bearing a faint likeness to that portrait."
"Yes, my dear? One often has that feeling when looking at a portrait. Can't you remember who it was?"
"No," said Celia, "I've been trying to think; but I can't remember ever meeting anyone resembling that face. I suppose it is only my fancy."
"I dare say," assented Mrs. Dexter. "You will dine at the usual hour, eight o'clock, I suppose? I am going to have your dinner served in the little room behind the library. You will not feel so lonely as you would in the big dining-room; but, of course, if you prefer——"
"What, sit there all by myself, in that great big room! I should die of fright. I should feel as if I had been wrecked on a desert island. Oh, the little room, please, by all means."