So
far as I can judge, the photograph is some eight or ten years old. I go by
the style of hair-dressing which it shows, and by the name of the
photographer, who signs from Wigmore Street. He is out of date; fashion
has deserted him. Then that grave, watchful young goddess, who sits
enthroned with her nymphs about her, must be a great deal older than our
lady of this room, of the doubtful smile and friendly desires. She has the
sedate air of eight-and-twenty, and by this time must be thirty-six or
even more. She is Philippa, anyhow, we read. Who comes next? Here is
Hawise, standing behind her of the throne and the centre, with a hand on
her bare shoulder. She is laughing, sleepily; she is distinctly pretty,
but distinctly, also, fat. She cannot be the owner of this room.
There's a taste for names in the Percival family: we have Philippa,
Hawise. Now for the seated pair, one on either side of Philippa: they are
Melusine, who has a long neck and a very demure look, and a great deal of
hair, and Victoria, who, having just tossed back her head, lifts her chin
and glimmers at you through half-shut eyes. Her lips laugh snugly at some
mischief meditating. Neither of these can be our lady, who must therefore
be the last and youngest, this child of eighteen or so, round-cheeked,
round-eyed and serious, with critical lids, like those of the Farnese
Hera, and a beautiful mouth: Sanchia-Josepha, crouched on the floor at the
feet of Philippa.
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