"We have no likeness of him."
"Yes; it was on the table, at the farm. Mrs. Brutt took it up, and his name was written—'Phil Morris.'"
"My mother has never shown it to me."
"It was there," repeated Doris, reading unbelief in the tone. "And— Dick—it was not the face of a gentleman."
He smiled. "Rather difficult to judge from a photograph."
"It was painted."
"Still less to go upon, unless the artist were first-rate. Would you like to be labelled from all your likenesses?"
She was silent; not convinced.
"And after all, my darling,—don't you think that the real question is— not, what my father was, but what I am? I don't mean that that is without weight; but surely—it has lesser weight."
"You don't know my mother, Dick, or how much she thinks of that sort of thing."