The Painting
“Sire will be here in a bit. Please wait there,” said the butler, expressing a bit of disgust at the unwanted disruption at mid-day, the time of the day when he remains really busy doing dusting and cleaning. Not that guests don’t visit the Johnson’s mansion during mid-day, but these guests weren’t worth any more explanation or attention, he concluded. About an hour later, a bulky brown-haired Mr. Johnson, not more than forty by appearance, painter by profession, wearing a mulberry silk overcoat, walked down the stairs, smoking a Sobranie. Relieved at the sight of this arrival, the woman and her five-year-old daughter, his two guests entered the hall. This was their fourth visit in the Johnson’s mansion with the same purpose. The woman was in a rugged woven gown, minimally stitched from the sleeves. The little girl’s clothes were better off than her mother’s; she had an expressive blank stare in her young eyes, which screamed deeper turbulence than the mysterious ocean. It was ...