"No."
"Think, Bertie. What was your mother's name?"
"Helen."
"What else? Can't you remember—the name on her paintings, perhaps?"
The boy was silent and his brow was puzzled. He reached into a pocket.
"I brought my book," he said, drawing forth a worn and much-thumbed pamphlet.
"I'm so glad you did," she returned.
He did not offer it to her, but she looked over his shoulder as he turned the leaves of the catalogue of an exhibition of paintings.
"There are two of my mother's," he said. He indicated the small reproductions of two landscapes and Mrs. Lowell studied them with interest.