Betty sighed a long sigh of contentment and settled herself closer in his arms. “Yes, I was there, and God heard me praying for you. Sometimes I felt myself there.”
“In the secret chamber of my heart, Betty, dear?”
“Yes.” They were silent for a while, one of the blessed silences which make life worth living. Then Betty lifted her head. “Tell me about Paris, Richard, and what you did there. It was Peter who was wild to go and paint in Paris and it was you who went. That was why no one found you. They never thought that of you––but I would have thought it. I knew you had it in you.”
“Oh, yes, after a fashion I had it in me.”
“But you said you met with success. Did that mean you were admitted to the Salon?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Oh, Richard! How tremendous! I’ve read a lot about it. Oh, Richard! Did you like the ‘Old Masters’?”
“Did I! Betty, I learned a thing about your father, looking at the work of some of those great old fellows. I learned that he is a better painter and a greater man than people over here know.”
“Mother knew it––all the time.”