, a widow for five years now, and two years ago my only brother left me as well! God bless them..."
The aunt began to babble, irresistibly interjecting some occasional flattering remarks to the young man before her.
Andre merely nodded occasionally, remaining silent the whole time, his mind seeming to have already transcended to another realm. His face was still wearing that proud and melancholic expression.
"What an annoying person!" young Edith thought to herself, indignant on behalf of her aunt.
"Perhaps, madam, you wouldn''t mind if I finish the painting you request as soon as possible? I am ready," the painter abruptly interrupted the aunt''s rambling during one of her brief pauses for breath.
"Ah, of course."
The artist had already turned away and returned to his easel, his eyes urging the customer to pose.
That evening, Aunt Adele brought home a sketch of herself. As for Edith, she was determined not to sit still in one position for even half a minute.
"Captured a vivid likeness," Margot murmured softly, giving such an evaluation.
----------------
Early the next morning, Edith knocked on the door of the painter''s room in the inn.
"You are...yesterday?" The painter was surprised to see the young girl standing alone in front of him.
"Edith," she replied, folding her arms over her chest to appear more grown-up. "May I?"
The painter gestured for her to enter.
The room was much messier than yesterday, with scattered paper and paint everywhere. The furniture was minimal, almost non-existent.
The painter continued to work, while Edith wandered around the cramped room. She knew nothing about art appreciation, yet put on an air of connoisseur.
"What is this painting about?" She pointed at a piece of bright watercolour.
"That''s Prometheus stealing fire, little one." He didn''t lift his head, concentrating on the painting in front of him.
After a while, she pointed at another oil painting and asked, "What about this one?"
"That''s a political painting. You''re too young to understand." His voice remained monotone.
Such conversation repeated itself several times, until Edith began to find it tedious.
She finally stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, and sternly said to the painter, "Why do you always act like an old fogey?"
The painter was amazed. "Me?"
"Yes, you. You'