After my lonely life I dare say I should have
loved any one who really needed me, and from the first moment that I
read the appeal in Mrs. Vanderbridge's face I felt that I was willing to
work my fingers to the bone for her. Nothing that she asked of me was
too much when she asked it in that voice, with that look.
"I am glad you are nice," she said, and for the first time she smiled--a
charming, girlish smile with a hint of archness. "We shall get on
beautifully, I know, because I can talk to you. My last secretary was
English, and I frightened her almost to death whenever I tried to talk
to her." Then her tone grew serious. "You won't mind dining with us.
Roger--Mr. Vanderbridge--is the most charming man in the world."
"Is that his picture?"
"Yes, the one in the Florentine frame. The other is my brother. Do you
think we are alike?"
"Since you've told me, I notice a likeness." Already I had picked up the
Florentine frame from the desk, and was eagerly searching the features
of Mr. Vanderbridge. It was an arresting face, dark, thoughtful,
strangely appealing, and picturesque--though this may have been due, of
course, to the photographer. The more I looked at it, the more there
grew upon me an uncanny feeling of familiarity; but not until the next
day, while I was still trying to account for the impression that I had
seen the picture before, did there flash into my mind the memory of an
old portrait of a Florentine nobleman in a loan collection last winter.
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