"
Helen rose from her place by the fire and walked to the window. She
felt that she was on very delicate ground, and she would gladly have
escaped from the discussion could she have done so without the feeling
of having evaded. She stood a moment looking out into the darkening
street, dusky in the growing January twilight, bleak and dreary. Then
with a sudden movement she went to her husband's desk and took up a
picture of her boy, a beautiful, manly little fellow of three years, of
whom Philip was especially fond. Crossing to her cousin, she put the
picture in his hand, at the same time turning up the electric light
behind him.
"See," she said, with feminine adroitness. "I don't think I've shown
you this picture of Greyson."
He looked at it earnestly, and sighed.
"It is beautiful," said he. "Greyson is a son to be proud of and to
love."
"Well?" she asked significantly.
"What do you mean?" returned he. "What has Greyson's picture to do with
what we were talking about?"
She took the photograph from his hand, extinguished the light, and
walked back toward the desk. The room seemed darker than before now
that the firelight only was left.
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