A wood fire crackled and shifted in the fireplace, the marble hood of which had been taken from a famous Italian palace. The irons stood ready as of yore for the cups of mulled wine. Before this fire sat a little old woman knitting. Her feet were on a hassock. From time to time her bird-like glance swept the thinker in the adjacent chair. She wondered what he could see in the fire there to hold his gaze so steadily. The little old lady had something of the attitude of a bird that had been given its liberty suddenly, and having always lived in a cage knew not what to make of all these vast spaces.
She was Jane’s mother, and sitting in the chair beside her was Anthony Cleigh.
“There are said to be only five portable authentic paintings by Leonardo da Vinci,” said Cleigh, 277 “and I had one of them, Mother. Illegally, perhaps, but still I had it. It is a copy that hangs in the European gallery. There’s a point. Gallery officials announce a theft only when some expert had discovered the substitution. There are a number of so-called Da Vincis, but those are the works of Boltraffio, Da Vinci’s pupil. I’ll always be wondering, even in my grave, where that crook, Eisenfeldt, had disposed of it.”
Mrs. Norman went on with her knitting. What she heard was as instructive and illuminating to her as Chinese would have been.
From the far end of the room came piano music; gentle, dreamy, broken occasionally by some fine, thrilling chord. Dennison played well, but he had the habit of all amateurs of idling, of starting something, and running away into improvisations. Seated beside him on the bench was Jane, her head inclined against his shoulder. Perhaps that was a good reason why he began a composition and did not carry it through to its conclusion.
“That was a trick of his mother’s,” said Cleigh, still addressing the fire. “All the fine things in him he got from her. I gave him his shoulders, but I guess that’s about all.”
Mrs. Norman did not turn her head. She had already learned that she wasn’t expected to reply unless Cleigh looked at her directly. 278
“There’s a high wind outside. More rain, probably. But that’s October in these parts. You’ll like it in Hawaii. Never any of this brand of weather. I may be able to put the yacht into commission.”
“The sea!” she said in a little frightened whisper.