"What was that you said, Mr. Sidney?"
Phil, again becoming conscious of the stony presence, smiled a little.
"Aunt Mary would have found sympathizers in Munich," he said.
"That's Germany, ain't it?" said Eliza, words and breath interlocking.
"Yes. Most of Uncle Sam's relatives want to see plainer what's doing; at least those who are able to buy pictures."
"Ahead of her time!" gasped Eliza, her blood racing through her veins. "Ought to 'a' been in Germany!"
And then the most amazing occurrence of Philip Sidney's life took place. There was a rush toward him, and suddenly his Medusa, his witch, his miser, his harpy was on her knees on the floor beside him, covering his hand with tears and kisses, and pouring out a torrent of words.
"I've nearly died with dread of you, Mr. Sidney. Oh, why isn't she here to hear you say those words of her pictures! Nobody was ever kind to her. Her relations paid no more attention to her, or her work, than if she'd been a—a—I don't know what. She was poor, and too modest, and the best and sweetest creature on earth; and when your sketches came she admired 'em so that I began to hate you then. Yes, Mr. Sidney, you was a relative, and goin' to be a success, and the look in her eyes when she saw your work killed me. It killed me!"
"Do, do get up," said Philip, trying to raise her. "Don't weep so, Eliza. I understand."
But the torrent could not yet be stemmed.