It was the face of a youth, elf-like, unreal, yet he saw his father's features in it.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again.

It seemed very dim.

Indeed, so delicately, vaguely, had the work been done that only eyes like Gaston's, trained to observe, with the sight of a hawk and a sense of the mysterious, could have seen so quickly or so distinctly.

He drew slowly back to the mantel again, and mused.

What did it mean?
He was sure that the woman was his grandmother.
At that moment the door opened, and an alert, white-haired man stepped in quickly, and stopped in the centre of the room, looking at his visitor.