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.