"My God!" cried Durnford; "Irene's portrait!"
It was no Vandyke—no sad and solemn picture of the Crucifixion, or the Descent from the Cross, no pale divine head with its coronal of thorns. It was only a woman's face, beautiful exceedingly, with golden-brown hair, and dark violet eyes under black lashes; a pale, sweet, almost perfect face, and the image of Irene Bosworth. And yet it was not Irene's portrait. A more deliberate inspection showed points of difference in the two faces. There was a startling resemblance, but not identity.
"What, you have discovered another of my secret treasures?" asked a soft and legato voice at Lavendale's elbow.
It was Mr. Topsparkle, who had reëntered the room so quietly that neither of his guests had been aware of his approach. He was paler than usual under his paint, and had a somewhat troubled air, Durnford thought; but if he were vexed at finding them before the hidden picture, he gave no utterance to his vexation.
"A very beautiful head and very tolerably painted, eh, gentlemen?" he asked lightly.
"A lovely head and very finely painted," replied Lavendale; "but there is something that strikes me more forcibly than the beauty of the face or the skill of the painter." He looked fixedly at Mr. Topsparkle as he spoke.
"Indeed! And pray what is that?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No, upon my honour."
"The very remarkable likeness between that head and Mrs. Irene Bosworth."