Edward Caspar raised his wistful eyes.
"Thank you, Mr. Trupp," he stuttered in his pathetic and dependent way. "Thank you. Very good of you, I'm sure. We're fond of each other, Anne and I. I owe her a lot. And my father's getting an old man."
On the mantelpiece was the photograph of a lady in court dress. Mr. Trupp studied the long and refined face. There was no mistaking the type. It was Beauregard all through, exhibiting the same sheep-like contour as that of the man in the bed, the same unquenchable spiritual longings as the Cavalier in the room below—added in this case to that exasperating weakness which provokes a pagan world to blows.
"Is that your mother?" asked Mr. Trupp.
"Yes."
"She's like you."
"She's supposed to be."
When the doctor left the sick room and went downstairs he was aware that the door of the sitting-room was open.
The woman was inside, standing duster in hand, under the picture of the Cavalier, whose eyes seemed now to the young doctor faintly ironical.
Mr. Trupp entered quietly and shut the door behind him.