"It looks—interesting," murmured Audrey, fatuously. (What was the subject, after all?) "Have you done many others?"
"Yes, a good many."
"May I——?" she hesitated, wondering whether her request might not be a social solecism, like asking a professional to play.
"If you care about pictures, I will show you some of my brother's some day. His are better than mine—more original, at least."
"Your brother? Oh, of course. Vincent told me you had a brother, a baby brother. Surely——"
Miss Haviland laughed again.
"How like Vincent! He is unconscious of the flight of time. I suppose he told you I was about ten years old. But you must really see the baby; he will be delighted with your description of him." She called through the skylight, and Audrey remembered the gentleman who was "no gentleman," and who must have been responsible for half the laughter she had overheard.
"You see," Miss Haviland explained, "we've only one room for everything; so Ted always climbs on to the leads when we hear people coming—he's bound to meet them on the stairs, if he makes a rush for the bedrooms. If any bores come, I let him stay up there; and if it's any one likely to be interesting, I call him down."
"He must have great confidence in your judgment."