She offered her hand and withdrew it immediately, as though this slight, new shyness of hers in his presence forbade that contact with him which, before that day when he painted her, had never seemed to embarrass her.
He ushered her silently into the little sitting room; she went forward and stopped by the center table, looking down curiously at the motley heap of toys and clothing which covered it.
He watched her intently as she turned over one object after another. Presently she glanced around at him interrogatively.
"Examine them," he said.
"What are they?"
"You see—a child's toys and clothing. Pick up that broken doll and look it over carefully."
She lifted the battered French doll, examined it as though perplexed, laid it aside, picked up a Polichinelle, laid that aside, looked at a woolly dog, a cloth cat, a wooden soldier in French uniform with scarlet cap askew and one arm missing.
"Well?" he asked.
"I don't understand, Jim."
"I know. Is there among these things any object which seems at all familiar to you?"