Even the long drawing-room of Chesney Wold cannot revive Mr. Guppy’s spirits.  He is so low that he droops on the threshold and has hardly strength of mind to enter.  But a portrait over the chimney-piece, painted by the fashionable artist of the day, acts upon him like a charm.  He recovers in a moment.  He stares at it with uncommon interest; he seems to be fixed and fascinated by it.

“Dear me!” says Mr. Guppy.  “Who’s that?”

“The picture over the fire-place,” says Rosa, “is the portrait of the present Lady Dedlock.  It is considered a perfect likeness, and the best work of the master.”

“Blest,” says Mr. Guppy, staring in a kind of dismay at his friend, “if I can ever have seen her.  Yet I know her!  Has the picture been engraved, miss?”

“The picture has never been engraved.  Sir Leicester has always refused permission.”

“Well!” says Mr. Guppy in a low voice.  “I’ll be shot if it ain’t very curious how well I know that picture!  So that’s Lady Dedlock, is it!”

“The picture on the right is the present Sir Leicester Dedlock.  The picture on the left is his father, the late Sir Leicester.”

Mr. Guppy has no eyes for either of these magnates.  “It’s unaccountable to me,” he says, still staring at the portrait, “how well I know that picture!  I’m dashed,” adds Mr. Guppy, looking round, “if I don’t think I must have had a dream of that picture, you know!”

As no one present takes any especial interest in Mr. Guppy’s dreams, the probability is not pursued.  But he still remains so absorbed by the portrait that he stands immovable before it until the young gardener has closed the shutters, when he comes out of the room in a dazed state that is an odd though a sufficient substitute for interest and follows into the succeeding rooms with a confused stare, as if he were looking everywhere for Lady Dedlock again.

He sees no more of her.  He sees her rooms, which are the last shown, as being very elegant, and he looks out of the windows from which she looked out, not long ago, upon the weather that bored her to death.  All things have an end, even houses that people take infinite pains to see and are tired of before they begin to see them.  He has come to the end of the sight, and the fresh village beauty to the end of her description; which is always this:  “The terrace below is much admired.  It is called, from an old story in the family, the Ghost’s Walk.”

“No?” says Mr. Guppy, greedily curious.  “What’s the story, miss?  Is it anything about a picture?”

“Pray tell us the story,” says Watt in a half whisper.

“I don’t know it, sir.”  Rosa is shyer than ever.

“It is not related to visitors; it is almost forgotten,” says the housekeeper, advancing.  “It has never been more than a family anecdote.”

“You’ll excuse my asking again if it has anything to do with a picture, ma’am,” observes Mr. Guppy, “because I do assure you that the more I think of that picture the better I know it, without knowing how I know it!”