“Ah, I remember this,” she exclaimed, “and this—and this. It was by this mirror I stood when I was dressed for my first ball, and as a little child I used often to climb on to this carved window-sill.”
We came to a room presently which seemed to have been taken more care of than the rest of the house. Its approach was up a little turret stair, and the room, when we entered it, was an octagon. Each of the octagon windows contained a picture in richly-coloured glass; the pictures represented the same child in various attitudes.
“Oh, how lovely!” I exclaimed. “Even the dirt and the neglect can’t spoil these windows.”
“No,” said my mother, but she turned a little white, and for the first time showed signs of fatigue. “I did not know Geoffrey kept the room in such order,” she said. “Why, look, Rosamund, look, it is fairly clean, and the glass in this great mirror shines. I believe Geoffrey took care of this octagon room himself.”
“This was your room, mother,” I said, flashing round upon her, “and I do believe this was your face when you were a child. Oh, what lovely, quaint, uncomfortable chairs, and what a brass fender to the old grate, and what a wonderful bit of tapestry hangs across that alcove! This was your room, your own, wasn’t it, mother dear?”
“I used to sit here a good deal,” answered my mother. “And Geoffrey’s father had the windows representing childhood put in specially for me. Poor Geoffrey! I think he drew all the designs himself.”
“Then Cousin Geoffrey was an artist?”
“Oh, my dear, did I never mention that?”
“No. How could you have kept such an interesting secret to yourself? And I talked art to him, and fancied myself so wise?”
“Rosamund dear, I am glad you have got the ruby ring. From a man like Geoffrey it means much. Cousin Geoffrey must have taken a great fancy to you, Rosamund.”