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In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. He laughed reassuringly. “If I am to turn you into a vampire, she cannot know. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. ” “It isn’t that you’re splendid or I,” said Capes. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other.
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