"Oh—Roberta!" he exclaimed, under his breath. Then he came forward, both hands outstretched. She let him have one of hers for an instant, but drew it away again—with some difficulty.
"You must be surprised to find me here." Roberta strove for her usual cool control. "Rosy and I came to see your grandfather. He sent us in here to look at these portraits. Rosy has gone back to him with a picture she thought looked like Gordon. I—was staying a minute to see this; it is very beautiful."
He laughed happily. "You have explained it all away. I wish you had let me go on thinking I was dreaming. To find you—here!" He smothered an exultant breath and went on hastily:—"I'm glad you find my mother beautiful. I never knew how beautiful she was till I brought her up here and put her where I could look at her. Such a little, girlish mother for such a strapping son! But she has the look—somehow she has the look! Don't you think she has? I was a year old when that was painted—just in time, for she died six months afterward. But she had had time to get the look, hadn't she?"
"Indeed she had. I can imagine her holding her little son. Is there no picture of her with you?"
"None at all that I can find. I don't know why. There's one of me on my father's knee, four years old—just before he went, too. I am lucky to have it. I can just remember him, but not my mother at all. Do you mind my telling you that it was after I saw your mother I brought this portrait of mine up from the drawing-room and put it here? It seemed to me I must have one somehow, if only the picture of one." His voice lowered. "I can't tell you what it has done for me, the having her here."
"I can guess," said Roberta softly, studying the young, gently smiling, picture face. Somehow her former manner with this young man had temporarily deserted her. The appeal of the portrait seemed to have extended to its owner. "You—don't want to disappoint her," she added thoughtfully.
"That's it—that's just it," he agreed eagerly. "How did you know?"
"Because that's the way I feel about mine. They care so much, you know."
She moved slowly toward the door. "I must go back to your grandfather."
"Why? He has Mrs. Stephen, you say. And I—like to see you here. There are a lot of things I want to show you." His eager gaze dropped to the desk-top and fell upon the ivory-framed photograph. He looked quickly at her. Her cheeks were of a rich rose hue, her eyes—he could not tell what her eyes were like. But she moved on toward the door. He followed her into the other room.
"Won't you stay a minute here, then? I don't care for it as I do the other, but—it's a place to talk in. And I haven't talked to you for—four months. It's the middle of June…. Let me show you this picture over here."