She raised her eyes finally, but not to his.  She looked at the portrait.

“Did you know that there was another picture behind?” she asked.

“No,” replied Orth, turning cold.  “How did you know it?”

“One day I touched a spring in the frame, and this picture came forward.  Shall I show you?”

“Yes!” And crossing curiosity and the involuntary shrinking from impending phenomena was a sensation of aesthetic disgust that he should be treated to a secret spring.

The little girl touched hers, and that other Blanche sprang aside so quickly that she might have been impelled by a sharp blow from behind.  Orth narrowed his eyes and stared at what she revealed.  He felt that his own Blanche was watching him, and set his features, although his breath was short.

There was the Lady Blanche Mortlake in the splendor of her young womanhood, beyond a doubt.  Gone were all traces of her spiritual childhood, except, perhaps, in the shadows of the mouth; but more than fulfilled were the promises of her mind.  Assuredly, the woman had been as brilliant and gifted as she had been restless and passionate.  She wore her very pearls with arrogance, her very hands were tense with eager life, her whole being breathed mutiny.

Orth turned abruptly to Blanche, who had transferred her attention to the picture.

“What a tragedy is there!” he exclaimed, with a fierce attempt at lightness.  “Think of a woman having all that pent up within her two centuries ago!  And at the mercy of a stupid family, no doubt, and a still stupider husband.  No wonder—­To-day, a woman like that might not be a model for all the virtues, but she certainly would use her gifts and become famous, the while living her life too fully to have any place in it for yeomen and such, or even for the trivial business of breaking hearts.”  He put his finger under Blanche’s chin, and raised her face, but he could not compel her gaze.  “You are the exact image of that little girl,” he said, “except that you are even purer and finer.  She had no chance, none whatever.  You live in the woman’s age.  Your opportunities will be infinite.  I shall see to it that they are.  What you wish to be you shall be.  There will be no pent-up energies here to burst out into disaster for yourself and others.  You shall be trained to self-control—­that is, if you ever develop self-will, dear child—­every faculty shall be educated, every school of life you desire knowledge through shall be opened to you.  You shall become that finest flower of civilization, a woman who knows how to use her independence.”

She raised her eyes slowly, and gave him a look which stirred the roots of sensation—­a long look of unspeakable melancholy.  Her chest rose once; then she set her lips tightly, and dropped her eyes.

“What do you mean?” he cried, roughly, for his soul was chattering.  “Is—­it—­do you—?” He dared not go too far, and concluded lamely, “You mean you fear that your mother will not give you to me when she goes—­you have divined that I wish to adopt you?  Answer me, will you?”