"Very well, ma'am."
He shuffled out, and returned in a minute or so with a lamp. Then I followed him.
As he opened the oak door of the picture gallery the lamp light rushed in before us, and I saw two long walls covered with the stern faces of the dead and gone Wilders; dim and faint they all looked in the faint light, just like ghosts. We walked down the centre of the gallery. I was looking for my face amongst all these strangers, but I could not find it.
I touched the old man on the arm, "Which is the picture of Beatrice Sinclair?" He made no reply, but the lamp in his hand shook with a noise like the chattering of teeth. Then he walked to a picture set in a black ebony frame.
"This is it," he said, "see."
I noticed that he did not say ma'am, but I did not notice it much, I was so engaged with the face of this Beatrice.
At first I felt pleased, then disappointed. She was very pretty, but not in the least like me. Then, as I looked, I could scarcely believe my eyes. A dimly-painted face began to grow out of the background—a man's face, with long flowing hair; his eyes were turned towards Beatrice, they seemed also turned towards me. It was myself. This man's portrait was my portrait, the face larger and more masculine, but the same.
Then the old butler dropped the lamp, and it smashed to pieces on the floor. I thought I could hear him weeping in the darkness, but I am not sure. I felt I was in the room with a ghost, and I remember catching the old man's arm, and his leading me towards the light glimmering in from the hall.