A frankly extended hand,--an easy "Good afternoon, Mr. Surrey!" That was
all. It was a cool, beautiful room into which she ushered him; a room
filled with an atmosphere of peace, but which was anything but peaceful
to him. He was restless, nervous; eager and excited, or absent and
still. He determined to master his emotion, and give no outward sign of
the tempest raging within.
At the instant of this conclusion his eye was caught by an exquisite
portrait miniature upon an easel near him. Bending over it, taking it
into his hands, his eyes went to and fro from the pictured face to the
human one, tracing the likeness in each. Marking his interest, Francesca
said, "It is my mother."
"If the eyes were dark, this would be your veritable image."
"Or, if mine were blue, I should be a portrait of mamma, which would be
better."
"Better?"
"Yes." She was looking at the picture with weary eyes, which he could
not see. "I had rather be the shadow of her than the reality of myself:
an absurd fancy!" she added, with a smile, suddenly remembering herself.
"I would it were true!" he exclaimed.
She looked a surprised inquiry. His thought was, "for then I should
steal you, and wear you always on my heart." But of course he could
speak no such lover's nonsense; so he said, "Because of the fitness of
things; you wished to be a shadow, which is immaterial, and hence of the
substance of angels.
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