It was the portrait of a handsome man in uniform, in the full bloom of a dissipated youth.

Her mother had seldom spoken of him, and when she did her eyes filled with tears.
A few feet farther away hung a portrait of her grandfather, brave in a high stock and ruffled shirt, the whole light of a bibulous past radiating from the crimson tip of his incriminating nose.
Next him hung Aunt Elizabeth, supercilious, arrogant, haughty.

Ruth recalled a tragic day of her past when she was sent to bed for climbing upon the piano and pasting a stamp on the red-painted lips.
She glanced down the long line: velvets, satins, jewels, and uniforms, and, above them all, the same narrow face, high-arched nose, brilliant dark eyes, and small, weak mouth.
On the table was a photograph of Carter.

Ruth sighed as she passed it.
It was a composite of all the grace, beauty, and weakness of the surrounding portraits.
She went to the fire and, sitting down on an ottoman, took two pictures from the folds of her dress.

One was a miniature in a small old-fashioned locket.