"My grandmother," replied Chalfont. "It was painted just after her marriage. She was only nineteen when she died, a year later."
"Oh, what a pity! Why?"
Chalfont passed to the next portrait.
"Her son," he said. "My father."
Maggy understood. She glanced back sadly at the youthful face of the mother.
Chalfonts in armor, in uniform, in silk and velvet and in lace, confronted her everywhere. She flitted from one to the other, admiring, impressed.
"How proud of them all you must be," she said finally. "Fancy having—ancestors!"
As she spoke she paused before the portrait of a woman, perceiving in it something different from the rest. The face was handsome, yet lacked a high-bred look.
"Another ancestress," said Chalfont. "An actress, a contemporary of Mrs. Siddons."
"How did she come here?" wondered Maggy, almost jealous for the honor of his house.