It was a night in no wise likely to raise Rosalie’s spirits from the curious depths of unreality and pain where they had fallen; yet towards morning she fell into a sleep so deep, that she never awoke from it till Mariana came to call and waken her.
“Mariana,” she said, “you promised you would show me Mr. Todbrook’s portrait yesterday, and you never did.”
“It is in the picture-gallery. You could have found it for yourself.”
“I don’t know where the picture-gallery is.”
“I had forgotten. If you wait for me in the corridor after breakfast I will show it to you.”
So after breakfast Rosalie went out into the passage to wait for her.
The gallery was downstairs in that same wing, facing toward the gardens, where the conservatory was.
It was a very large gallery, longer than broad, with polished floor, and seats upholstered in red velvet stood along the walls. The light was admitted from the roof, but very beautiful electric candelabra hung from the ceiling, which was all panelled and carved in black oak.
Mariana led the way to the portrait of the late owner of the Marble House. There he stood in the correct evening dress for a man of his position, with one hand leaning on a table and the other by his side. He was slightly built and scarcely of middle height, with a refined, delicate, and quiet face, and a look of wistful melancholy in his eyes that interested and attracted Rosalie.
“Who painted it?” she asked, after studying it for some time.