“He knew my mother. He had known her from a girl. I think he loved her,” she said quietly, her eyes on the man. “He was on the legation at St. Petersburg—See! He does like them!” She had leaned forward.
Uncle William glanced up.
The man was standing a little removed from the painting, his arms folded, his head thrown back, oblivious to the crowd.
She rose quickly. “I am going to speak to him,” she said. “Wait here for me.” She passed into the changing throng that filled the room beyond.
Uncle William waited patiently, his eyes studying the swift kaleidoscope of the doorway. When she reappeared in it, her face was alight with color. “Come.” She held out her hand. “I want you to meet him. He likes them—oh, very much!” She pressed her hands together lightly. “I think he will buy them—two, at least.”
Uncle William got to his feet. “I s’pose ye told him about Alan and about my place.”
She stopped short, looking at him reproachfully. “Not a word,” she said—“not a single word!”
Uncle William’s countenance fell. “Wa’n’t that what you went out for?”
“No; and you must not mention it. I only told him that you liked them.”
“Can’t I even say that’s my house out there?” He waved his hand.