When he entered, he advanced towards the Earl with one of his most bright and placid smiles, apologized for being a little later than his time, was delighted to see the Earl looking rather better, and then turned to see who was the other person in the room, in order to apportion his civility accordingly.  When he beheld Wilton Brown, the young gentleman’s fine person, his high and lofty look, and a certain air of distinction and self-possession about him, though so young, appeared to strike and puzzle him; but the Earl instantly introduced his protege to the statesman, saying, “The young friend, my lord, of whom I spoke to you, Mr. Wilton Brown.”

Lord Byerdale was now as polite as he could be, assured the young gentleman that all his small interest could command should be at his service; and while he did so, he looked from his countenance to that of the Earl, and from the Earl’s to his, as if he were comparing them with one another.  Then, again, he glanced his eyes to a beautiful picture by Kneller, of a lady dressed in a fanciful costume, which hung on one side of the drawing-room.

Wilton remarked the expression of his face as he did so; and his own thoughts, connecting that expression with foregone suspicions, rendered it painful.  Quitting the room for a moment before dinner was announced, he retired to his own chamber, and looked for an instant in the glass.  He was instantly struck by an extraordinary resemblance, between himself and the picture, which had never occurred to him before.

In the meanwhile, as soon as he had quitted the room, the Earl said, in a calm, grave tone to his companion, pointing at the same time to the picture which the other had been remarking, “The likeness is indeed very striking, and might, perhaps, lead one to a suspicion which is not correct.”

“Oh, my dear lord,” replied the courtier, “you must not think I meant anything of the kind.  I did remark a slight likeness, perhaps; but I was admiring the beauty of the portrait.  That is a Kneller, of course; none could paint that but Kneller.”

The Earl bowed his head and turned to the window.  “It is the portrait,” he said, “of one of my mother’s family, a third or fourth cousin of my own.  Her father, Sir Harry Oswald, was obliged to fly, you know, for one of those sad affairs in the reign of Charles the Second, and his estates and effects were sold.  I bought that picture at the time, with several other things, as memorials of them, poor people.”

“She must have been very handsome,” said Lord Byerdale.

“The painter did her less than justice,” replied the Earl, in the same quiet tone:  “she and her father died in France, within a short time of each other; and there is certainly a strong likeness between that portrait and Wilton.—­There is no relationship, however.”