They reminded her somewhat of herself.

There were the same round cheeks, the same small childishness of lips and nose and chin, the same pale complexion tinged with fragile pink, the same big, blue eyes.

Had he taken an interest in her because she was like this girl, this girl whose miniature he had allowed to be the only breaking note in the whole symphony of his scheme of decoration?
They were like each other, a likeness sufficiently apparent to suggest the thought to her mind.
The miniature was painted in a fashion common to all such works of art a hundred and fifty years ago.

She could not tell from its style when it had been done.

But the fact that it hung there alone, the one gentle spot in otherwise austere and hard surroundings, was sufficient for her to give it the highest prominence in her mind.
It must be that, it must be what she had thought.