The subject of the portrait looked younger. She had Margaret’s wide-set grey eyes, her dark hair, her clear skin, to which colour flowed richly only in emotion. And the resemblance went further than the physical, for John saw above him that expression, so remarkable for its vitality and yet so comforting in its repose, with which, when he turned his head, he found Margaret regarding him. In her eyes, though, was the brightness of laughter, and her great-grandmother had been a grave sitter. “Is it so astonishing?” “It is a wonderful portrait. You are sound evidence for the artist.” “I had her hung there,” Margaret said, the light of laughter flickering out--“I had her hung there, at the foot of the stairs, so that I might see her whenever I came down to a dance or a dinner, and each morning before the day began. She looks so extraordinarily alive--so interested in all the world. And now--well, now, so far as the world is concerned, she’s a picture on the wall and a name in a genealogical table.” “And so you use her as a text?” “Not that. I don’t attempt to weave philosophies around her. I suppose it’s an odd form of superstition--at any rate, you can call it that, if you like. She seems to keep a certain balance----” Margaret paused suddenly. “Isn’t that morbid?” Not till the question was out did he realize that he had spoken to test her. “Morbid?” she repeated. “That’s an easy word with which to dismiss the things you are afraid of. I’m not in the least afraid of great-grandmother.... Besides, I don’t think of her as dead. She is the best of great-grandmothers--extremely practical. She makes compliments transparent--on her stairs, at any rate.” Margaret laid her hand on the panels. “And she makes me glad I can _feel_ the grain in this oak.” She turned away and walked to the bottom of the flight. Then she glanced up at John with a quick smile. “And sometimes, when I have been lazy, she sends me up to my room again to change my dress.” She took him to admire a lacquer cabinet that stood in the hall. “I expect you like looking at and touching these things? I know I should, if I had been long in a warship.” John rejoiced in her understanding. “Carpets,” he said, “are the unceasing wonders; and the sound of dresses, and candles!” “Candles? Do you remember that phrase in a poem of yours--‘the spear-head flames’?” “Yes. How did you see it?” “Hugh sent home the copy you gave him. And--do you mind?--I showed it and other poems of yours, without your name, of course, to a friend of ours, a man whose judgment people believe in.” “I’m very glad. What did he say?” “Good things. I’ll tell you when there is more time.” “Who was he?” “I’ll get you to meet him some day--if you are not for ever out of England.... Why didn’t you ask me what I thought of the poems myself?” “I thought you would tell me.” “I’m scarcely a year older than you.” “Does that matter? It depends on what you were born and what you have read.”