He half turned to her.
“I want to see the Latimer paintings. May I come down after dinner, and have a chat with your mother?”
She felt something rise in her throat, a faint spasm of resistance that lasted only for a moment.
“But—the artificial light?”
“I want to see them.”
It was not so much a surrender on her part as a tacit acceptance of his enthusiasm.
“Yes, come.”
“Thank you.”