As he put the question, a sudden flood of light seemed to illumine Celia's mind; it was as if she had been gazing perplexedly on a statue swathed in its covering, and as if the covering had been swept away and the statue revealed. She knew now that the face in the portrait resembled that of the young man on whom her thoughts were always dwelling. The resemblance was faint; but it existed in her mind quite plainly. The revelation brought the blood to her face, then she became pale again. The Marquess, looking over his shoulder, waited for her answer. "I remember now, my lord----" she began. "Young or old?" he said, not loudly, but with a quiet insistence. "Young," replied Celia. To her surprise and relief, the Marquess gave a little dry, almost contemptuous, laugh; and as he turned to her, with his hands folded behind his back, there was a faint smile on his face. "Who is he?" he asked. "I don't know," replied Celia. "You don't know!" said his lordship, raising his brows. "Pardon me, I don't understand." Celia stood before him, her hands clasped together in a clasp that, light at first, became tighter; her eyes were downcast, a slight fold came between her brows; for an inappreciable second or two, she lost consciousness of the great hall, the tall, bent figure silhouetted against the fire; she was back in Brown's Buildings, in that poverty-stricken room, and she saw the young man's head lying on his outstretched arm, a revolver in his hand. "I don't know," she repeated, returning, suddenly, from that vision of the past. "It was someone I met, saw, for a short time----" "But his name?" said the Marquess, with a subdued impatience. "That I don't know," Celia replied, raising her eyes, in which the Marquess could not fail to read truth and honesty. "I saw him once only, and for a short time, and then--then he passed out of my life. I mean, that I did not see him again; that it is unlikely I shall ever see him again." "Where was this--this meeting of which you speak?" inquired the Marquess, in a conversational tone. "Pardon me if I seem intrusive--it is your affair and yours only--but you have excited my curiosity. The portrait is that of my brother." "I know," said Celia. "I do not mind your asking me; but I cannot tell you. What passed between me and him----" She stopped; she was on delicate ground; this man, with his worldly experience, his acute intelligence, might lead her on to disclose what had happened that night; she could not cope with him. "I do not know his name." The Marquess bowed his head, and smiled slightly, as if he scented the aroma of a commonplace romance.