"Not an artist! Then he occupied his leisure hours with painting. How nice! So good for a man to have some pursuit, apart from his regular work. It keeps him away from the public-house. It makes him love his home. And I suppose your younger daughter is like her father."
"No."
"Indeed. She does not take after you either."
"That's as may be."
Mrs. Brutt was at a loss how to meet this.
"I'm said to be like what mother was," Winnie observed timidly.
"Indeed." The notion was preposterous. Mrs. Brutt turned to a framed photograph. "Ah, this no doubt is Mr. Morris. Such a fine-looking young man! And was it in India that you lost him?"
"That's my uncle."
"You don't say so! Your uncle, Mr. Paine? But I ought to have guessed— quite the young farmer, leggings and all. And now I see—so like Farmer Paine! A perfectly charming old man!"
Mrs. Morris was silent.