entirely in the domain of intuition; this alone can lead to the
discovery of what everyone is interested in concealing. The old
lady's face was like the room she inhabited; it seemed as
difficult to detect whether this squalor covered vice or the
highest virtue, as to decide whether Adelaide's mother was an old
coquette accustomed to weigh, to calculate, to sell everything,
or a loving woman, full of noble feeling and amiable qualities.
But at Schinner's age the first impulse of the heart is to
believe in goodness. And indeed, as he studied Adelaide's noble
and almost haughty brow, as he looked into her eyes full of soul
and thought, he breathed, so to speak, the sweet and modest
fragrance of virtue. In the course of the conversation he seized
an opportunity of discussing portraits in general, to give
himself a pretext for examining the frightful _pastel_, of which
the color had flown, and the chalk in many places fallen away.

"You are attached to that picture for the sake of the likeness,
no doubt, mesdames, for the drawing is dreadful?" he said,
looking at Adelaide.

"It was done at Calcutta, in great haste," replied the mother in
an agitated voice.

She gazed at the formless sketch with the deep absorption which
memories of happiness produce when they are roused and fall on
the heart like a beneficent dew to whose refreshing touch we love
to yield ourselves up; but in the expression of the old lady's
face there were traces too of perennial regret. At least, it was
thus that the painter chose to interpret her attitude and
countenance, and he presently sat down again by her side.