“I have her miniature,” he said; he drew out a little velvet case and tossed it with a pretence of indifference into Edith’s lap. She held it for a moment as if she dreaded what might meet her eye, and then, opening it quickly, she gazed at the exquisite familiar face.
“Oh, Leslie,” she cried, “it is Helen of Troy!”
The boy was delighted.
“Well, she’s the most beautiful woman in the world to me,” he said. “I’m glad you like it!”
His step-mother sat staring as if spellbound at the little velvet case; the boy took it from her unresisting hands.
“If you feel like this about her, Edith,” he said, “will you say something to my father for me--something, I mean, about her being everything she ought to be, you know, and it not mattering her being a little older than me--and really twenty-five is not very old, is it?”
“I am forty,” said Edith irrelevantly.
Leslie looked up compassionately.
“Well,” he said reassuringly, “you aren’t really old yet, you know, Edith.”
“No, I’m not really old yet,” agreed his step-mother.