But at this he laughed confidently. “You don’t know the one I’m thinkin’ of,” he said. “You’ve guessed something of what I came to tell you, grandma, but you’ve certainly missed fire about her! I’ll show you.” And from his breast pocket he took an exquisite flat case of blue leather and silver; opened it, and handed it to her. “There’s her photograph. I’d like to see if you think she’s the kind you’ve been talkin’ about!”
Mrs. Savage put on the eye-glasses she wore fastened to a thin chain round her neck, and examined the photograph of Lena McMillan. She looked at it steadily for a long minute, then handed it back to her grandson, removed her glasses, and, without a word, again folding her hands in her lap, looked out of the window.
Under these discomfiting circumstances Dan said, as hopefully as he could, “You’ve changed your mind now, haven’t you, grandma?”
“On account of that picture?” she asked, without altering her attitude.
“Yes. Don’t you think she’s—don’t you think she’s——”
“Don’t I think she’s what?” Mrs. Savage inquired in a dead voice.
“Don’t you think she’s perfect?”
“Perfect?” Expressionlessly, she turned and looked at him. “What are your plans, Dan?”
“You mean, when do we expect to——”
“No. What business are you going into?”