I led her on to the next portrait of herself.
“This,” she said, quite as if she had not told me the same things half a dozen times before, “was done by an English artist just after my Jack was born. I wanted him to paint it with my little David sitting at my feet and my Jack in my arms, but he was not in favor of it. He said he preferred to paint me by myself. For one thing, he considered me too small to paint with such fine large sons. He said it made me look ridiculous. But I truly think, Azalea, that he did not regard me as motherly enough. I know I was and am a vain woman. But my vanity, my dear, is only skin deep—only skin deep. It is a manner, nothing more. In my time it was fashionable for girls in my class to act as if they were self-indulged and vain. But in reality—” she paused, and stood out before me, and I saw there were tears in her eyes, and her face grew tender and quiet—“in reality, my dear granddaughter, my motherhood was more to me than anything else.”
She drooped her head down among the laces on her gown, and I heard her say under her breath:
“I have almost died of it!”
I put my arm around her and drew her close to me—such a tiny creature as she is!
“Little madam grandmother,” I whispered, “come back to the fire, and I will make some tea. Then perhaps you will tell me a story. I love your stories very, very much.”
She straightened up again, calling on her courage and her pride.
“But there is one more portrait which I wish to show you, my dear. It was done by a celebrated South American when I was just turned forty—my autumnal picture, I call it. Here I am, in my spring, in my summer, in my autumn.”
She smiled up at me suddenly.
“And now, I suppose, you wish me to round out my year, and have my winter picture painted? Well, I can provide the snow.” She touched her silver hair with her wrinkled hand.