She was too unaffected to make any foolish remarks about being flattered too much. She accepted the fact that she was good-looking, and said nothing about it. Crowdie reflected for a moment, wishing to turn a graceful compliment upon her last speech, but he could think of nothing new. His mind was preoccupied by the discovery she had made of a fact by no means new to himself nor, perhaps, wholly unintentional.
“Where shall we hang it, Mr. Crowdie?” asked the old gentleman, at last.
“Ah—that’s an important question. Where should you like it, sir?”
Crowdie occasionally introduced a ‘sir’ when he addressed the millionaire, by way of hinting, perhaps, that he considered him to be the head of the family, though his only connection was through his wife, and that was a distant one. Hester Crowdie’s maternal great-grandfather had been Robert Lauderdale’s uncle.
“I should like it near me,” said the old man. “Couldn’t we have it in this room?”
“Why not? Just where it is, if you like it there. I’ll get you an easel and a bit of stuff to drape it with in an hour.”
“An easel? H’m—that’s not very neat, is it? An easel out in the middle of the room—I don’t know how that would look.”
“What difference does it make—if you’d like it here?” asked Katharine.
“That’s true, child—why shouldn’t I have what I like?” asked the old millionaire.
Crowdie laughed.