Then she leaned back—not in her rocking-chair, for she hadn’t one in her house—but in a big chintz-covered arm-chair that fairly swallowed up her slender figure. She was gazing intently at a large oil painting that stood in the almost loving embrace of another big chair, placed in a good light from a window. Paper and wrapping stuff lay on the floor, and I guessed that the picture had just arrived.
While she sat staring at it, her little maid ushered in another caller. This time it was Mr. Bonstone. He spoke nicely to her in his short manner, said “Hello! Boy,” to me, then stood leaning against the mantel, watching her pour out a cup of tea for him. As he approached the little table to take it from her, his eye fell on the painting.
He didn’t say anything, but his look said, “Ah! she has been getting a family picture from England.”
I have already remarked that Mrs. Waverlee was a bit of a clairvoyante. She saw he was interested, and she said in her distinct, delicate way, “It is my father, taken with my boy when we were last in England.”
Mr. Bonstone was slowly wiggling his spoon back and forth in his cup to dissolve the sugar. As she spoke, his eye kindled. Something in the portrait aroused his attention. Then his hand stopped moving the spoon.
“Your father,” he said slowly.
“Yes,” she repeated simply, “my dear father.”
Most American women would have vouchsafed some more information, seeing that his curiosity was aroused, but she was a regular Englishwoman, and could talk sweetly for hours, and tell you nothing.
At last, Mr. Bonstone took the initiative, and said, “May I ask his name?”