As he made the announcement, he checked a sigh and turned away. Celia waited for a moment or two; the Marquess had sunk into a chair, his eyes fixed on the great dog, which had thrown itself at his feet. It seemed to Celia that his lordship had forgotten her. "Good night, my lord," she said, softly. He looked up with a start, rose, and opened the door for her, and, with a courtly inclination of the head, bade her good night. Now a strange thing happened. As Celia was crossing the hall, she stopped and looked at the portrait before which the Marquess had been standing; and she remembered how she had been struck by a fancied resemblance to someone whom she could not trace. Her pause before the picture was scarcely more than momentary, but she was startled by the sound of footsteps, and, looking up with a half-frightened gaze, found the Marquess standing beside her. His face was almost stern, his dark eyes, so like those of the picture, were fixed on her, questioningly; and there was just a suspicion of anger in the keenness of his regard. "You are interested in that picture?" he said, in a dry voice. "I--I----Yes," said Celia, telling herself that she had no cause for fear, seeing that she had committed no crime. "Why?" he demanded, curtly, and his tone was still dry and harsh. Celia was silent for a moment; then she raised her eyes to his, calmly--for what was there to fear, why should he be angry with her for looking at the portrait? "It is a very beautiful picture," she said. The Marquess's brows lifted, and he bent his head as if apologizing for his curtness. "That is true," he said, more gently. "It is one of the best in the collection. And your interest is only an artistic one?" Celia had only to say "Yes," and to escape; but she was not given to equivocation; moreover, her high spirit had resented the anger and suspicion in his manner, for which, she felt, he had no justification. "Not only, my lord," she said, as quietly as before; "but the first time I saw it, I thought that the face of the portrait was like that of someone I knew." She was startled by the sudden change in his demeanour. His brows came down again, his eyes grew piercing, his lips stern. "Like whom?" he demanded, shortly. "I don't know," she said, with a slight shrug; "that is why the portrait interests me so. If I could trace the resemblance, I should--well, not be so bothered by it." The Marquess paced to the fire and held his hands to it, as if he had become cold suddenly. "Strange!" he said, musingly, and with an air of indifference, which Celia felt to be assumed. "Is the man you think resembles the portrait young--or old?"