"Do I surprise you, David?" she asked in her gentlest tones. "I ought to be looking at the pictures, you think? My friend! I can't always control my own sad recollections. They will force themselves on me—sometimes when the most trifling associations call them up. Dear Mr. Engelman understands me. He, no doubt, has suffered too. May I sit down for a moment?"
She dropped languidly into a chair, and sat looking at the famous chimney-piece. Her attitude was the perfection of grace. Mr. Engelman hurried through his explanation of the pictures, and placed himself at her side, and admired the chimney-piece with her.
"Artists think it looks best by lamplight," he said. "The big pediment between the windows keeps out the light in the daytime."
Madame Fontaine looked round at him with a softly approving smile. "Exactly what I was thinking myself, when you spoke," she said. "The effect by this light is simply perfect. Why didn't I bring my sketch-book with me? I might have stolen some little memorial of it, in Mr. Keller's absence." She turned towards me when she said that.
"If you can do without colors," I suggested, "we have paper and pencils in the house."
The clock in the corridor struck the hour.
Mr. Engelman looked uneasy, and got up from his chair. His action suggested that the time had passed by us unperceived, and that Mr. Keller's return might take place at any moment. The same impression was evidently produced on Minna. For once in her life, the widow's quick perception seemed to have deserted her. She kept her seat as composedly as if she had been at home.
"I wonder whether I could manage without my colors?" she said placidly. "Perhaps I might try."
Mr. Engelman's uneasiness increased to downright alarm. Minna perceived the change, as I did, and at once interfered.
"I am afraid, mamma, it is too late for sketching to-night," she said. "Suppose Mr. Keller should come back?"