Somewhat apart from the central family collection, I noted two of cabinet size, placed close together. One was the likeness of a remarkably handsome youth, almost a young man, standing in an attitude of careless and smiling ease. The other represented a lad, perhaps two or three years younger, plain-featured, but brimming over with so irresistible a look of fun and merriment, that I fairly laughed aloud, as I looked into the mischievous eyes.
"Who are those?" I asked, smiling still, and turning to Thyrza.
No answering smile met mine. "Keith and Eustace," she said.
I looked again. "Not your brother Eustace, of course. You have a cousin of the same name, perhaps," I suggested. For the one was far too handsome; and there seemed no possible connection between that other radiantly merry face and the grave young man downstairs.
"Yes, my brothers, Keith and Eustace." She spoke in a curt, even hard tone. "The photos were taken six years ago, just before it all happened. Nobody else can bear to see them together like this. But I think—"
Thyrza stopped abruptly.
"I did not know you had had another brother," I said. There had been the loss of one little girl, I was aware, between the twins and Popsie; but of any older son than Eustace I had not heard.
"Then mother never told you. I wonder at that. She can't speak of Keith generally; but you are her friend!"
"I cannot recall any mention of him," I said.
"And you don't know how it all happened?"