Richard
turned the pages eagerly, scanning them for faces he knew, and
discovered much satisfaction in one charming picture of Roberta's mother
at eighteen, because of its suggestion of the daughter.
"Eleanor was the beauty of the family, and is yet, I always say,"
asserted Aunt Ruth. "Robby's like her, they all think, but she can't
hold a candle to her mother. She's got more spirit in her face, maybe,
but her features aren't equal to Eleanor's."
Richard did not venture to disagree with this opinion, but he privately
considered that, enchanting as was the face of Mrs. Robert Gray at
eighteen, that of her daughter Roberta, at twenty-four, dangerously
rivalled it.
"I could tell better about the likeness if I saw a late picture of Miss
Roberta," he observed, his eyes and mouth grave, but his voice
expectant. Aunt Ruth promptly took the suggestion, and limping daintily
away, returned after a minute with a framed photograph of Roberta and
Ruth, taken by one of those masters of the art who understand how to
bring out the values of the human face, yet to leave provocative shadows
which make for mystery and charm.
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