A woman appeared in the open doorway—an arresting figure—a woman with snow-white hair, tall, stately, matronly; extraordinarily beautiful, with a calm, melancholy beauty; a woman well past middle age, yet with soft white skin, unwrinkled; upright carriage; a noble, gracious personality.
“In the dark, children?” she said; then put out her hand, and the room flashed into light.
“Grannie!” shouted the boy, and ran to meet her.
With her hand upon his shoulder, she moved slowly into the middle of the room.
The young man half rose, offering his chair.
“Do not move, Colin,” she said, and went to the couch.
The boy climbed up beside her, nestling his dark curls into the lace at her bosom. She put her arm about him with a gesture infinitely tender and protective.
The younger woman spoke. “Colin and I were lazing in the firelight, mother. Then Nigel arrived with his ball, and forced us to be energetic.”
The watcher at the window pressed closer to the pane. In the fascination of the scene he forgot to fear discovery.
By the brighter light the couple appeared older than he had at first thought them. She was probably his own age, even older; her husband, two or three years her senior. She had inherited her mother’s remarkable beauty. It was good to see them together. The one revealed the youthful loveliness of the past; the other promised the maturer beauty yet to come; and both were very good to look upon.