As Celia undressed slowly, going over the scene that had taken place in
the hall below, recalling the changes in the Marquess's expressive face,
his strange manner, with its suggestion of anger and impatience, she
sought in vain for an explanation. Had he actually been annoyed and
irritated by her admission that she had noticed a resemblance in the
portrait of his dead brother to someone whom she had met? He had said,
emphatically, that it was only a fancied resemblance, and she accepted
his decision. It certainly could be only a freak of imagination on her
part, seeing that the Marquess's brother had not married--indeed, it was
ridiculous to suppose that there was any connection between the noble
family of the Sutcombes and the unknown man in the poverty-stricken room
at Brown's Buildings. Woman-like, her mind dwelt more on him than on the
Marquess's impatience and annoyance. There was something strange,
mysterious, in the fact that, not only was she haunted by the memory of
the young man, but that here, at Thexford Hall, she should fancy a
portrait of one of the family resembled him.

It did not need much to recall him to her mind; for it may be said that
in no idle moment of hers was her mind free of him. Now she asked
herself, for the hundredth time, not only what had become of him, but
what was her duty to him. She had not tried to find him, had not
endeavoured to communicate with him. At the moment it occurred to her
that she might have inserted a carefully-guarded advertisement in the
Personal column of one or more of the newspapers, and she felt ashamed
that the thought had not struck her before. She almost, but not quite,
decided to insert such an advertisement at once; but, as she pondered,
she questioned the wisdom of such an action. Her mind swung, like a
pendulum, from one side to the other, and at last she fell asleep, still
undecided, but still thinking of him.