Before one discovered the owner of this room one would have decided at once that he must be smallish, slender, with stooping shoulders, gold-rimmed eye-glasses, a jeweled watch-fob and, perhaps, a squint; and the massive appearance of the present occupant would have occasioned more than a slight shock of surprise. When Jane looked in, Henry K. Loring sat on the very edge of a wide arm chair, with a magnifying glass in his hand carefully examining a small oil painting which was propped up under a reading light on another chair in front of him. People who knew him only in his business capacity might have been surprised at his quiet and critical delight in this studious occupation, for down town he was best known by a brisk and summary manner, a belligerent presence and a strident voice which smacked of the open air. His bull-like neck was set deep in his wide shoulders as his keen eyes peered under their bushy eyebrows at the object in front of him. He was so absorbed that he did not hear the light patter of his daughter’s footsteps, and did not move until he heard the sound of her voice.
“Well, Daddy!” she said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
His round head turned slowly as though on a pivot.
“Hello, Jane! Feeling better?” He raised his chin and winked one eye expressively.
“I thought you were going—with Mother,” said Miss Loring.
“Lord, no! You know I—” and he laughed. “I had a headache, too.”
The girl smiled guiltily, but she came over and sat upon the arm of the chair, and laid her hand along her father’s shoulder.
“Another picture! Oh, Daddy, such extravagance! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? So that’s why you stole away from the Dorsey-Martin’s——”
“It’s another Verbeckhoeven, Jane,” he chuckled delightedly. “A perfect wonder! The best he ever did, I’m sure! Come, sit down here and look at it.”
Jane sank to the floor in front of the painting and reached for the enlarging glass. But he held it away from her.