When the train had borne Somerset from her side, and she had regained her self-possession, she became conscious of the true proportions of the fact he had asserted.

And, further, if the telegram had not been his, why should the photographic distortion be trusted as a phase of his existence?
But after a while it seemed so improbable to her that God's sun should bear false witness, that instead of doubting both evidences she was inclined to readmit the first.
Still, upon the whole, she could not question for long the honesty of Somerset's denial and if that message had indeed been sent by him, it must have been done while he was in another such an unhappy state as that exemplified by the portrait.

The supposition reconciled all differences; and yet she could not but fight against it with all the strength of a generous affection.
All the afternoon her poor little head was busy on this perturbing question, till she inquired of herself whether after all it might not be possible for photographs to represent people as they had never been.
Before rejecting the hypothesis she determined to have the word of a professor on the point, which would be better than all her surmises.
Returning to Markton early, she told the coachman whom Paula had sent, to drive her to the shop of Mr.Ray, an obscure photographic artist in that town, instead of straight home.
Ray's establishment consisted of two divisions, the respectable and the shabby.

If, on entering the door, the visitor turned to the left, he found himself in a magazine of old clothes, old furniture, china, umbrellas, guns, fishing-rods, dirty fiddles, and split flutes.

Entering the right-hand room, which had originally been that of an independent house, he was in an ordinary photographer's and print-collector's depository, to which a certain artistic solidity was imparted by a few oil paintings in the background.