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. “I don’t know. There is no name to it. I think myself the Master may have done it. It was painted after death.” “From his corpse?” asked Rosalie, in horror. “Oh, no! From memory, I should say.” “Does Mr. Barringcourt paint, then?” “In his spare time, yes. I think he must have done this. I don’t know who else could. Even millionaires are bad to remember when once they’ve passed away.” “Is it like him?” “I don’t know. But Everard says it is almost lifelike.” “Who is Everard?” “The man who keeps the door.” “I don’t like him at the door. Do you?” Mariana looked up with almost startled eyes. “Don’t like him? I like everyone.” “I don’t like him,” persisted Rosalie. “He’s one of those men who always does what he is told. If Mr. Barringcourt told him to wring your neck round, or mine, he’d do it soon—as soon as wink.” “Of course,” said Mariana, as if that were the acme of perfection. “Well, he has neither heart nor head. Now, if Mr. Barringcourt told me to wring your neck, I’d tell him to do it himself, I’d had no practice that way.” Mariana looked at her in utter surprise, and then suddenly she sank back upon the velvet seat, and began to laugh. Unhappily, her merriment did not last, for almost as suddenly she jumped up again, her face white with pain, and her features drawn and contracted. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake don’t make me laugh! The pain at my heart is something terrible,” and she caught Rosalie’s arm in her hand, quite unconscious of the strength of the grip she had taken. In surprise and alarm, the unconscious offender stood still. “What is it?” she gasped at length. “Is the pain very bad?” Mariana looked at her and nodded. “Talk about one’s heart breaking,” she said, with a wintry smile. “Every time I laugh I get that feeling.” “Let us go away,” said Rosalie, noticing that the great pallor of her face did not decrease. “Yes. It’s time I was back at—at the wedding garment.” “But you’re not going to that damp, dark place this morning, are you?” “Yes.” “Then I shall come with you.” “No. I told Everard, and he does not approve.” “But he is not master here.” “No; but his advice is very good to go upon.” “Did I not tell you how heartless he was?” “You mistake what is meant for kindness. Let us go.”