"My son," he said, not without pride. Mahony
would have coaxed the child to him; but it ran to its mother, hid its
face in her lap.
Forgetting the bell John struck an attitude. "What a picture!" he
exclaimed. "What a picture! My love, I positively must carry out my
intention of having you painted in oils, with the children round you.--
Mr. Mahony, sir, have you ever seen anything to equal it?"
Though his mental attitude might have been expressed by a note of
exclamation, set ironically, Mahony felt constrained to second Turnham's
enthusiasm. And it was indeed a lovely picture: the gracious,
golden-haired woman, whose figure had the amplitude, her gestures the
almost sensual languor of the young nursing mother; the two children
fawning at her knee, both ash-blond, with vivid scarlet lips.--"It helps
one," thought Mahony, "to understand the mother-worship of primitive
peoples."
The nursemaid summoned and the children borne off, Mrs. Emma exchanged a
few amiable words with the visitor, then obeyed with an equally good
grace her husband's command to rest for an hour, before dressing for the
ball.
Having escorted her to another room, Turnham came back rubbing his
hands. "I am pleased to be able to tell you, Mr. Mahony, that your suit
has my wife's approval. You are highly favoured! Emma is not free with
her liking." Then, in a sudden burst of effusion: "I could have wished
you the pleasure, sir, of seeing my wife in evening attire.
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