easy-chairs, and deep, low comfy chairs; airy tables, the preposterously
slender legs of which looked frail and were not; books, paper-backed,
and gay magazines; a wondrous, limpid cheval-glass.

Across the farther side of the room was a very wide window. Through its
slender gothic panes one saw a walled lawn and a single elm. Beside the
window and half turned toward it, so that the light fell across her
face, sat the woman of the portrait.

"How do!" she cried gaily to Leighton, and held out her hand. She did
not rise.

"H lne," said Leighton, "your room's so cursedly feminine that it's
like an assault for a man to enter it."

"I can't give you credit for that, Glen," said the lady, laughing.
"You've had a year to think it up. Where have you been? That's right.
Sit down, light up, and talk."

Leighton nodded over his shoulder at Lewis.

"Been fetching him."

"So this is the boy, is it?" The bright eyes stopped smiling. For an
instant they became shrewd. They swept Lewis from head to foot and back
again. Lewis bowed, and then stood very straight. He felt the color
mounting in his cheeks. The smile came back to the lady's eyes.

"Sit down, boy," she said.