"You look just like a picture in this week's 'Illustrated London News'—I mean in general pose," he exclaimed.
"Do I? How nice that sounds! What is it?"
"Whistler's 'Portrait of his Mother.' But I hope you don't think I think you look old."
"How old do I look?" She turned her head slightly towards him.
"About twenty-three, only I imagine you're much younger."
Although she did not reply, she made no pretence of being annoyed, nor did Richard tax himself with a gaucherie.
"It took me years to like Whistler's pictures," she said; and in response to Richard's surprised question she was beginning to explain that a large part of her life had been passed in the companionship of works of graphic art, when a slippered step was heard in the hall and some one fumbled with the door-handle. Mr. Aked entered.
"Uncle! You wicked old man!" She sprang up, flushed, and her eyes sparkled angrily. "Whatever did you get up for? It's enough to kill you."
"Calm yourself, my child. I got up because I didn't want to stay in bed,—exactly that." Mr. Aked paused to take breath and sank into a chair. "Larch, I heard your voice in the passage. Upon my word, I quite forgot you yesterday. I suppose Adeline's been telling you I'm seriously ill, eh? Ah! I've had many a worse attack than this. Put that antimacassar over my shoulders, child."