The old woman was standing on the threshold of the door opening between the two rooms. Maurice had risen to offer her assistance.
‘Come in and sit down a bit,’ she said, pleased at having found some one to talk to, for it was a notorious fact at Borcel End that old Mrs. Trevanard always had a great deal more to say for herself when her daughter-in-law was out of the way than she had in the somewhat freezing presence of that admirable housewife.
Maurice complied, and entered the room which he had observed through the half-glass door, a comfortable homely room enough, in the light of an excellent fire. Old Mrs. Trevanard required a great deal of warmth.
She went back to her arm-chair, and motioned her visitor to a seat on the other side of the hearth.
‘It’s very kind of you to be troubled with an old woman like me,’ she mumbled.
‘I dare say you could tell me plenty of interesting stories about Borcel End if you were inclined, Mrs. Trevanard,’ said Maurice.
‘Ah, there’s few houses without a history; few women of my age that haven’t seen a good deal of family troubles and family secrets. The best thing an old woman can do is to hold her tongue. That’s what my daughter-in-law’s always telling me. “Least said, soonest mended.”’
‘Ah,’ thought Maurice, ‘the dowager has been warned against being over-communicative.’
Contemplating the room more at his leisure now than he had done from outside, he perceived a picture hanging over the chimney-piece which he had not noticed before. It was a commonplace portrait enough, by some provincial limner’s hand, the portrait of a young woman in a gipsy hat and flowered damask gown—a picture that was perhaps a century old.
‘Is that picture over the chimney a portrait of one of your son’s family, ma’am?’ asked Maurice.