“My dear, you will never grow old,” he said. “You belong to the things of beauty, and you remember what the English poet said of them.”
The little porcelain lady laughed among the laces of her morning-gown.
“Yes, but the French poet said just the reverse, and in matters of beauty the Frenchman is the better judge.”
“Well, let Otto be umpire. He is best able to decide. Otto, do you find that your mother has grown a day older since you left?”
The old Baron looked towards his big son with what, on his easy features, was almost an anxious expression.
“Yes, she is older,” said Otto.
The Baroness laughed again.
“My dear,” she said, “he is as impossible as ever. Leave him. He, at least, has not changed.”
Mynheer van Helmont dropped his eyelids with a quick movement of vexation, and walked from the room.
Mother and son were left together. They went into the Baroness’s little turret-chamber, a rounded bonbonnière, all pale flowered silk and Dresden china, with a long window overlooking the park.