“Oh, them!” His tone reduced them to mere art. But a thought hung on it. “Where be they?” he asked.
“At the ’Exhibition of American Artists.’” It was the tone of sheer pride.
“They took ’em, did they?” said William.
“They couldn’t help it. They sent back one for lack of room, but he will have four hung.”
“That’s good. You haven’t told him?”
“I only heard an hour ago, and I had copying to finish. I have a little recital, of my pupils, this evening. I was planning to write the letter and mail it on the way out.”
Uncle William started up. “I’m hinderin’ ye.”
“No—please.” She had forced him back gently. “I shall not have to write the letter now. Tell me about him.” Her face was alight.
Uncle William considered. “The’ ain’t much to tell, I guess. He’s gettin’ better. He’s actin’ the way men gen’ally do.”
“Yes—?” Her voice sang a little. “And he wants to see me?”