"Thank you." Sheridan said, smiling politely, charmed by Lauren's unabashed enthusiasm. When one was dead and bitter and surrounded by dried-up horrors, someone as carefree and enthused as Lauren could be a breath of fresh air. "One of my few little luxuries. I collect art work and period furniture."
Once one knew what to look for, the parlor was indeed a work of art. There were marble-topped sideboards and bookshelves filled with heavy, leather-bound tomes. Old portraits of somber or whimsical men and women in 19th century attire hung alongside landscapes of rolling English fields and later prints of industrial machinery. Sheridan's home was a museum to the past, or more a coccoon. Outside, Sheridan fought and intrigued and manipulated the modern world. At home, at least, she'd created her own little haven of the past, where she could be comfortable and secure from worry. It was a false security, but pleasant nevertheless.
"As a matter of fact, I've made it a note to collect those old paintings I modeled in, my own little joke to hang them alongside Titian and Gainsborough." Sheridan said, indicating one small portrait with a casual hand. It was definitely Sheridan, red-haired, freckled, but much more wide-eyed and innocent than the present Lady of London could ever manage. She was dressed as a milkmaid or peasant girl, and sitting on a rail fence in front of a pasture. "Innocence lost."
