"Not she. She's a deal too clever. But she paints—like a bird. I've seen some of her things."
"Oh!—so you've been to call?"
Lady Tatham lifted her beautiful eyes upon her son. Harry Tatham fidgeted with his cup and spoon.
"No. I was shy, because you hadn't been. But—"
"Harry," interrupted his mother, her look all vivacity, "did she paint those two water-colours in your sitting-room?"
The boyish, bluntly cut face beside her broke into a charming laugh.
"I bought 'em out of the Edinburgh exhibition. Wasn't it 'cute of me? She told me she had sent them there. So I just wrote to the secretary and bought them."
There was silence a moment. Lady Tatham continued to look at her son. The eyebrows on her brow, as they slowly arched themselves, expressed the half-amused, half-startled inquiry she did not put into words. He flushed scarlet, still smiling, and suddenly he laid his hand on hers.
"I say, mummie, don't tease me, and don't talk to me about it. There may be nothing in it—nothing at all."
His mother's face deepened into gravity.