More than once on the train he had read over his aunt's letter, and each time her words smote an answering chord in his heart and set it to aching.
The present visit accentuated the perception of what her life had been. For a moment his eyes glistened wet against the cat's indolent contentment.
"I wish she hadn't saved any money, the poor little thing," he muttered. "No friends, no sympathy—nothing but that avaricious piece of humanity, calculating every day, probably, on how soon she would get it all. I'll paint her as a harpy. That's what I'll do. Talons of steel! That's all she needs." He heard a sound and dashed a hand across his eyes.
Eliza, heavy of heart, stony of face, entered, a number of pictures bound together, in her hands. The visitor darted forward to relieve her, and Pluto drove claws into his suddenly unsteady resting-place.
Eliza yielded up her treasures like victims, and stood motionless while Phil received them. Never had she looked so gaunt and grey and old; but the visitor did not give her a glance. Aunt Mary's letter was beating against his heart. Here was the work her longing hands had wrought, here the thwarting of her hopes.
His fingers were not quite steady as he untied the strings, and moving the easel into a good light placed a canvas upon it.
Eliza did not wish to look at him, but she could not help it. Her pale gaze fixed on his face in a torture of expectation, as he backed away from the easel, his eyes on the picture.
Pluto rubbed against his ear as a hint that caressing be renewed.
He stood in silence, and Eliza could detect nothing like a smile on his face.
Presently he removed the canvas, and took up another. It was the portrait of Pluto.