For all that, his heart throbbed as he stood at the door, and with catching breath, he followed the servant upstairs.
Before Mrs.Hannaford appeared, he had time to glance round the drawing-room, which was simpler in array than is common in such houses.
His eye fell upon a portrait, a large crayon drawing, hung in a place of honour; he knew it must represent Irene's mother; there was a resemblance to the face which haunted him, with more of sweetness, with a riper humanity.

Whilst his wife still lived, Dr.Derwent had not been able to afford a painting of her; this drawing was done and well done, in the after days from photographs.

On the wall beneath it was a little bracket, supporting a little glass vessel which held a rose.

The year round, this tiny altar never lacked its flower.
Mrs.Hannaford entered.

Her smile of greeting was not untroubled, but seeing her for the first time somewhat ornately clad, and with suitable background, Piers was struck by the air of youth that animated her features.