“Yes, surely. If anything more than another tends to harmonize individuals, it is the society of that fairer half of the creation which we love for their very foibles. I am much attached to the softer sex—to young persons full of health. I like to see the rosy checks, where the warm blood mantles in the superficial veins, and all is loveliness and life.” Charles shrank back, and the word “Demon” unconsciously escaped his lips. Sir Francis took no manner of notice of the expression, but went on talking, as if he had been on the very happiest terms with every one present. “Will you follow me, at once, to the chamber where the portrait hangs,” said Henry, “or will you partake of some refreshment first?” “No refreshment for me,” said Varney. “My dear friend, if you will permit me to call you such, this is a time of the day at which I never do take any refreshment.” “Nor at any other,” thought Henry. They all went to the chamber where Charles had passed one very disagreeable night, and when they arrived, Henry pointed to the portrait on the panel, saying— “There, Sir Francis Varney, is your likeness.” He looked, and, having walked up to it, in an under tone, rather as if he were conversing with himself than making a remark for any one else to hear, he said— “It is wonderfully like.” “It is, indeed,” said Charles. “If I stand beside it, thus,” said Varney, placing himself in a favourable attitude for comparing the two faces, “I dare say you will be more struck with the likeness than before.” So accurate was it now, that the same light fell upon his face as that under which the painter had executed the portrait, that all started back a step or two. “Some artists,” remarked Varney, “have the sense to ask where a portrait is to be hung before they paint it, and then they adapt their lights and shadows to those which would fall upon the original, were it similarly situated.” “I cannot stand this,” said Charles to Henry; “I must question him farther.” “As you please, but do not insult him.” “I will not.” “He is beneath my roof now, and, after all, it is but a hideous suspicion we have of him.” “Rely upon me.” Charles stepped forward, and once again confronting Varney, with an earnest gaze, he said— “Do you know, sir, that Miss Bannerworth declares the vampyre she fancies to have visited this chamber to be, in features, the exact counterpart of this portrait?” “Does she indeed?” “She does, indeed.” “And perhaps, then, that accounts for her thinking that I am the vampyre, because I bear a strong resemblance to the portrait.” “I should not be surprised,” said Charles. “How very odd.” “Very.” “And yet entertaining. I am rather amused than otherwise. The idea of being a vampyre. Ha! ha! If ever I go to a masquerade again, I shall certainly assume the character of a vampyre.” “You would do it well.” “I dare say, now, I should make quite a sensation.”