"Let's have a look."
She gave him the letter; and while he read it, she intently watched his face. "The boy'll write—I shouldn't wonder," was his verdict, handing back her treasure, with an odd half-smile in his eyes.
"And you were hoping—he would paint?" she said, answering his thought.
"Yes, but—scarcely expecting. Sons are a perverse generation. I'm glad he's tumbled on his feet and found a pal."
"Yes. It is good."
"We'll invite young Desmond here and inspect him, eh?"
"Yes—we will."
He was silent a moment, considering her profile—humanly, not artistically. "Jealous, is she? The hundredth part of a fraction?"
"Just so much!" she admitted in her small voice. "But underneath—I am glad. A fine fellow. We will ask him—later."
The projected invitation proved superfluous. Roy's next letter informed them that after Christmas Desmond was coming for ten whole days. He had promised.