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Look here, Margaret!" The portrait was that of a man in middle life, handsomely dressed in black velvet, with hat and ruff. His face was sad, but the bright, dark eyes looked intelligently at the girls, and the whole face had a familiar look. "He has a look of Papa," said Margaret softly; "it is a weaker face, but there is a strong resemblance."
"How can you judge of that?" "From the readiness with which you give up this portrait." "I would not have given it up so easily to anybody else." "I thank you; and as a compensation I beg you to accept my friendship." "I place it in my estimation infinitely above the portrait, and even above the original. May I ask you to forward my answer?" "I promise you to send it.
With laurels about his head he would have resembled a Roman emperor, very handsome and master of the world, as though indeed the blood of Augustus pulsated in his veins. Pierre knew his story which this portrait recalled.
In an old glass-fronted, secretary bookcase of mahogany, the first piece of "parlour furniture" his parents had ever bought, were the dear books of Petro's boyhood and early youth, and above, on the gray-papered wall, hung a portrait of mother, which her son had had painted by an unfashionable artist as a "birthday present from his affectionate self" at the age of sixteen.
"It is a portrait," said the nobleman, "only a portrait, some would say, as if the finest pictures in the world were not only portraits. The masterpieces of the English school are portraits, and some day when you have leisure and inclination, and visit Italy, you will see portraits by Titian and Raffaelle and others, which are the masterpieces of art.
He stopped before the writing-table, where his photograph, well-dressed, handsome, self-sufficient the portrait of a man of the world, confident of his ability to deal adequately with the most delicate situations offered its huge fatuity to his gaze. He turned back to her. "It's rather hard on Owen, isn't it, that you should have waited until now to tell him?"
"I tell you, father, you have a magnificent head! I'm going to make a portrait of you just as you are some day." The Elder rose with an indignant, despairing downward motion of the hands and began pacing the floor, while Peter Junior threw off restraint and laughed aloud. The laughter freed his soul, but it sadly irritated the Elder.
I call it rubbing the thing in to expect me to spend my afternoons gazing into the ugly face of a little brat who to all intents and purposes has hit me behind the ear with a blackjack and swiped all I possess. I can't refuse to paint the portrait because if I did my uncle would stop my allowance; yet every time I look up and catch that kid's vacant eye, I suffer agonies.
Hardly had she reached home when fatal symptoms appeared; she felt that she must die, but showed little concern thereat. The portrait of the handsome Spaniard lay close beside her on her couch. She smiled at it, besought it to have pity on her loneliness, or scolded it bitterly for indifference, and for going away.
"I should think not," cried Mallow, indignantly. "Juliet's mother!" "But she may have something to do with the matter all the same. However, you have been plain with me, and I will do all I can to help you. The first thing is for us to follow up the clue of the portrait." "Ah, yes! I had quite forgotten that," said Mallow, casting a look on the photograph which lay near at hand.
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