little face close to mine, and seeking in my eyes what I thought of the portrait. I thought it represented a very handsome and very individual-looking female face, with, as he had once said, "straight and harmonious features." It was dark; the hair, raven-black, swept not only from the brow, but from the temples—seemed thrust away carelessly, as if such beauty dispensed with, nay, despised arrangement. The Italian eye looked straight into you, and an independent, determined eye it was; the mouth was as firm as fine; the chin ditto. On the back of the miniature was gilded "Lucia."
"That is a real head," was my conclusion.
Hunsden smiled.
"I think so," he replied. "All was real in Lucia."
"And she was somebody you would have liked to marry—but could not?"
"I should certainly have liked to marry her, and that I have not done so is a proof that I could not."
