George Weston

“ She ran out for a boy to carry it, and between the two they soon had it fastened over the mantelpiece in Miss Neames's sitting-room. A vase, artfully placed, hid the patch in the lower corner, and a bottle of gold paint did wonders for the frame. It was a life-size copy of a portrait, not unskilfully done, and it dominated the room to an extent that awed Miss Neames at first.
"A real oil-painting," she whispered to herself. "Who would have thought that I would ever own one! And how handsome he looks sitting up there—and how sad! Poor man." ”

“ And no one who looked at little Miss Neames could reverse the verdict of Mr. Ridge. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were pink, and she carried herself with a certain cozy assurance that was a delight to see. Moreover, she had focussed all her art in the making of a blue silk dress which fitted her to perfection, and which brought out the roses in her cheeks and laughed at the hint of gray in her hair. In a word, it was quite impossible to contradict Mr. Ridge when he sank into an easy chair near the window and looked at her and said, "It seems good to be here." ”

“ Is he—is he dead?"
"He has been dead," said Mr. Ridge, "nearly ninety years."
She bowed her head, and when she looked next at the picture over the mantelpiece her mouth trembled a little.
"There is a sketch of his life in the front of the book," continued Mr. Ridge. "He was—to tell you the truth, Miss Neames, he was very wild." ”