"Mr. Bartell mentioned his name—and yours."
"He was a painter, yes; he died out there in Colorado."
She seemed to shudder ever so slightly and her eyes closed again.
"And your—your mother?" The words were hardly more than a whisper.
"My mother died when I was very small."
Again she seemed to wince under a sting. But now she fell away from that waiting tenseness with which she had held him. The hand that had hovered over his arm fell limply into her lap, and she leaned back in her chair.
"I'm afraid you aren't very well," he ventured. "The rooms are close."
She opened her eyes, with no sign of having heard. Sitting forward in her chair she gazed ahead with narrowed eyes.
"I am an old woman and dull, Mr. Ewing, but I should like to have you come and see me."
"I'll be glad to come," he answered promptly enough, though he could not keep surprise from his voice.