Rain still poured without intermission, and Mrs. Brutt began to feel exhausted. Making conversation to an unresponsive world uses one's energies fast. Katherine, too, was tired of her present position, and both were glad when the footman appeared, in a dripping condition.
"Would Miss Stirling go home in the carriage—or would she prefer a closed fly from the village?"
"A fly certainly, and as soon as possible," decided Katherine.
[CHAPTER XI]
The Portrait
THE atmosphere had become oppressive. Nobody had anything to say. Katherine was at the end of her ideas; Doris remained in the background; Jane was still subdued. Mrs. Brutt felt that it rested with her to keep the ball going. She walked across to the mantelpiece.
"What a remarkable picture! Quite realistic, isn't it, Miss Stirling?" Katherine went near. "Was that painted by yourself, Mrs. Morris? No?— oh, I see—" as she made out a scrawled "P. Morris" in one corner. "I see—her husband!" in a whisper to Katherine. "What wooden rollers!" Then aloud: "How interesting for you to have this. So touching! Was your poor dear husband a sailor?"
"No."
"He must have had a gift—quite a gift! An artist, I suppose."
"No."