"Yes," Thornton answered, "with a difference."
"What is it?" she pressed him anxiously.
"I don't know, the something that has come in with the three generations," he answered, slowly.
"Tell me honestly," she persisted, with all the egotism of youth aroused over a personal verdict.
"Shall I?" he said, seriously. She grew grave, but nodded. Thornton watched the color leave and a trace of helplessness cross her face.
"The old fellow," he kept looking from the portrait to the woman before him, "in spite of his stiff board costume and the manner he's painted in, was a great lump of fire. It burned hard in him, burned away flesh and common passions; he must have been a restless, fervent man. You are calmer," he ended, stupidly.
"Yes, you mean that his fire has burnt out; that I am weak as water, when he was strong."
"No, not that, exactly," Thornton protested.
"Yes, you did," she reiterated, sadly. "And it is so, too. I am generally so tired. There are only hours like these, when something flows in and I forget things and am happy. But it fades away, it fades away."
They stood silent before the portrait. Suddenly she remembered herself.