I don't know why. There's one of me on my
father's knee, four years old--just before he went, too. I am lucky to
have it. I can just remember him, but not my mother at all. Do you mind
my telling you that it was after I saw your mother I brought this
portrait of mine up from the drawing-room and put it here? It seemed to
me I must have one somehow, if only the picture of one." His voice
lowered. "I can't tell you what it has done for me, the having her
here."
"I can guess," said Roberta softly, studying the young, gently smiling,
picture face. Somehow her former manner with this young man had
temporarily deserted her. The appeal of the portrait seemed to have
extended to its owner. "You--don't want to disappoint her," she added
thoughtfully.
"That's it--that's just it," he agreed eagerly. "How did you know?"
"Because that's the way I feel about mine. They care so much, you know."
She moved slowly toward the door. "I must go back to your grandfather."
"Why? He has Mrs. Stephen, you say. And I--like to see you here. There
are a lot of things I want to show you." His eager gaze dropped to the
desk-top and fell upon the ivory-framed photograph.
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