There was no sign here, at any rate, of hurried departure.
Everything was in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor,
not a cupboard or drawer was left open. The curtains were drawn aside,
and through the open window the fresh morning air was streaming in.
Facing the window, and well into the centre of the room, stood
a ponderous business-like desk, which looked as if it had seen much
service. On the wall to the left of the desk, reaching almost from
floor to ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a woman,
magnificently framed, exquisitely painted, and signed with the name of
Boucher. It was Percy's mother.
Marguerite knew very little about her, except that she had
died abroad, ailing in body as well as in mind, which Percy was still
a lad. She must have been a very beautiful woman once, when Boucher
painted her, and as Marguerite looked at the portrait, she could not
but be struck by the extraordinary resemblance which must have existed
between mother and son. There was the same low, square forehead,
crowned with thick, fair hair, smooth and heavy; the same deep-set,
somewhat lazy blue eyes beneath firmly marked, straight brows; and in
those eyes there was the same intensity behind that apparent laziness,
the same latent passion which used to light up Percy's face in the
olden days before his marriage, and which Marguerite had again noted,
last night at dawn, when she had come quite close to him, and had
allowed a note of tenderness to creep into her voice.
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