straight chestnut hair with its reddish shadows, which she usually wore in a coronet braid, was partially concealed by her black hat, a bit of millinery that east a dark shade upon her warm brown skin and her glowing cheeks.
She did not look in the least like a sorrowing widow. Her manner, her glance, was that of a human being which knows itself so well that it cares little or nothing for the opinions of others. Her figure had grown fuller without being buxom, Portia being the type of woman called magnificent. She had not lost the odd charm of her mouth, which, when slightly parted, showed two upper front teeth a bit; this touch of lightness distracted from her otherwise serious expression, which was the first thing I noted about her.
As we emerged from the subway station upon the street, we were encountered by an elderly woman who inclined her head very slightly in recognition, but with a certain air. Portia touched my arm and stopped me.
“Aunt Sophie, I want to have you meet Mr. Differdale’s mother, of whom I’ve already written you,” she said very sweetly.
Mrs. Differdale jerked her head high. She made me think of a superannuated warhorse that hears the military band passing. She almost snorted, in fact, as she acknowledged the introduction. I had an idea that she was embarrassed about something, and Portia told me later that curiosity had made the other woman wait near the subway entrance so that she would be the first to meet me.
“I hope you will be able to persuade your niece to shut up that big, lonely house and live like a civilized human being,” she said to me quite sharply. “It’s her duty to come out of her seclusion and interest herself in worthwhile work for this community and the world.”
Portia did not appear at all disturbed by this little stab, but as we went on our way she remarked, just a bit sadly: “Poor soul, she has never gotten over it that Mr. Differdale left everything to me, except an annuity sufficient for her modest needs. She considers me an interloper, especially as I’ve been obliged to refuse to admit her to the laboratory since my husband’s death. She made several visits of condolence within a week.”
We walked up about three blocks along Queens Boulevard. Portia pointed out the great ten-foot wall in the middle of the fields. I couldn’t have missed it; it was a landmark, and a mysterious one at that.
We had just returned up Gilman Street, which runs from the boulevard to the Differdale place, when an automobile came up behind us. The driver stopped it and called Portia’s name.
I knew before I was told that this young man with the merry twinkle in his dark gray eyes, the whimsical smile hovering about his generous mouth, and the light brown hair showing under his cap, was Owen Edwardes. I could not refrain from stealing a glance at my niece, but although I imagined I saw a deeper rose creeping up in her blooming checks, she maintained a quiet dignity and composure that told me quite nothing.
“Do let me take you home,” implored the newcomer, leaning back to open the car door for us.
“Aunt Sophie, this is Owen Edwardes,” Portia said. “My aunt is going to make her home with me, Owen.”
“Aunt Sophie, I’m overjoyed to meet you and to learn that you are going to keep Portia company. I think she needs just you.”
Portia smiled slowly. There was a certain gentle enjoyment of this masculine directness in her expression.
