Sophy gazed down at the miniature, and the dark fear stole over her again. It was certainly strangely like her Bobby. The same dark-red curls, and imperious little cleft chin. The eyes in the miniature were brown, Bobby's were grey—that was the most noticeable difference.
"Yes—it's very like Bobby," she said with an effort.
"My father was Chancellor of the Exchequer at seven-and-thirty," said Lady Wychcote. "You see now the chief reason of my interest in my grandson."
Sophy saw indeed. Then she gathered up her courage.
"But it's a pity, I think, to count on the tendencies of such a mite," she said. "He may not show the least inclination for politics."
"That," said Lady Wychcote rather grimly, "is a matter of education."
Sophy looked into the hard eyes.
"I think not," she said, but her tone was gentle.
"Allow me—as one having more experience—to disagree with you," replied her mother-in-law.
Sophy still looked at her.