“Not bad for an amateur,” said Mr. Fourmy. “Just the lid of a cigar-box and a little paint. I never did care about anything but the figure.”
He took the picture up and looked at it lovingly, and with pride and in a queer confidential voice that startled René and stung Mrs. Fourmy into a sudden attention, he said:
“You can understand an old man liking to do something with his hands, and it’s strange how, when I paint a little bit like that”—he pointed to the hip—“it brings back wonderful moments I have had and rare pleasures, not just in remembering, but as they were—wonderful!”
“I think so,” said Linda with unwonted simplicity, and Mr. Fourmy took her hand, stooped over it, and kissed it.
René looked at his mother, she at him, and Linda, turning to Mrs. Fourmy, smiled and said:
“I am so glad to have come, Mrs. Fourmy. René and I are such friends. We have such great hopes for him and I wanted to see you. Will you take me home, René?”
Mr. Fourmy opened the door of the room for her, hurried ahead to open the front door, and with a tremendous dignity, bowed again over Linda’s hand, thanked her for coming, and said:
“May life be good to you, and very amusing.”
And Linda answered:
“I’d like to buy your picture, Mr. Fourmy. Will you send it to me when it is finished?”