The dead woman's letter was against his heart. He felt that they were standing together, opposed to the hard, grudging face confronting him.
But this was Eliza's crucial moment. In spite of herself she feared in the depths of her heart that that which Mrs. Ballard had said was true; that this restless, careless boy had an artistic ability which her dear one had never attained. She shrank with actual nausea from his comments on her mistress's work. He might not say anything unkind, but she should see the lines of his mouth, the quiver of an eyelash.
She felt unable to rise.
"She left 'em all to me," she said mechanically, pale eyes meeting dark ones.
Phil brushed Pluto's ears and the cat sang through the indignity.
"Talk about the bark on a tree!" he thought. "I believe I'll paint her as a miser, after all! She'd be a wonder, with Pluto standing guard, green eyes peering out of the shadow."
He smiled down at Eliza, the curves of his lips stretching over the teeth she had admired.
"All right," he said. "I'm not going to take them away from you."
Eliza forced herself to her feet, and without another word slowly left the room.
Phil met the cat's blinking eyes where the pupils were dilating and contracting. "Katze, this place gives me the horrors!" he confided.