"Hullo, f—father," he cried with a slight stutter, and rose in perturbation: a ramshackle young fellow, taller even than his father, but entirely lacking the other's girth and authoritative presence. A soft beard framed his long face, and he was wearing the low flannel collar that in the seventies was the height of bad form.
"Just like you, Ned," said the elder with a grimness that was not entirely unkind.
The son bent and brushed his knees unnecessarily. His face twitched, but he did not attempt to answer.
"Your mother's very ill," said the big man casually. He took a letter from his pocket and thrust it towards his son.
The young man read it and handed it back.
"Is she h—happy?" he asked, his face moved and moving.
"She's away all the time—like her son," the other answered; and added more mildly—"She doesn't know any one now—not even the latest parson." He turned and climbed the hill again.
On the summit by the flagstaff he paused and looked round deliberately.
"Might build an hotel here," he said thoughtfully. "Should pay."