“He is dark, and—and that is all.”
“An artist, is he not?”
“Yes; he was painting the portrait of the gentleman with whom he’s gone abroad when— [p142] when he was taken ill”—the child’s sweet grey eyes filled with tears. “He broke a blood-vessel, and—and ’twas said he would die if he spent the winter in England.”
“And so the gentleman took him abroad?”
“Yes; it was very kind of him. A Mr. Mortimer—his father was rich once, only he lost his estate, so his son was poor, only he married a rich lady; and they are so happy, and Mrs. Mortimer is so beautiful,” went on the child.
“Mortimer! Mortimer!”—the ancient lady shook her head. “No, I don’t know the name,” she sighed, looking at her son’s picture again.
“I wonder where the little boy is, Madame Giche?” said Inna, out of the silence that followed, noting the aged mother’s fond gaze.
“Little boy, dear?” was the dreamy response.
“Yes, Madame Giche, your dear little grandson.”
“My dear, he’s not a little boy—he’s thirty-three years of age—that is, if he’s living.”