"I have not," said the lady.
"And you tell me that the man who visited the asylum this morning is the original of this picture?"
"I do."
"Then, dear mother, your memory is at fault and your imagination deceives and misleads you. Both the supposed original and the miniature are thin-faced, with Roman features, fair complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair—points of resemblance which are common to many men who are not at all alike in any other respect. Now look at this miniature again, and you will see that, except in the points I have named, it is in no way like the man you mistook for its original."
"I would rather not look at it. I have not seen it since—Volaski's supposed death," said the abbess, shrinking.
"Oh, but do, for the satisfaction of your own mind. You see so few men, that you may easily mistake one blonde for another after twenty years of absence from them," persisted Salome, pressing the open miniature upon the lady.
So urged, the abbess took it, gazed wistfully at the pictured face, and murmured:
"It is possible. I may be mistaken."
"You are," muttered Salome.
The abbess continued to gaze on the portrait, and whispered: