White would not approve of callers. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. In that sense, my strategy worked. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. He had, he felt, to create certain ideas and vivify certain curiosities and feelings in her. But, perhaps Mr. ‘He isn’t Valade, and the Comtesse de St Erme is absolutely furious. “Please come by.
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