"Fact is, we're all bored stiff!" drawled Everard from the sofa, flinging away the book he was reading, and stretching his arms in the luxury of a long-drawn yawn. "What should you say to a turn in the car? Wouldn't it be rather sport, don't you think?"
"If Grandfather would spare Milner to take us!" said Lilias doubtfully.
"We don't want Milner. I'll drive you! I can manage a car as well as he can, any day. Don't get excited, you kids! No, Bevis, I shall certainly not allow you to try to drive! There's only going to be one man at that job, and that's myself!"
"Shall we go and ask Grandfather?" suggested Dulcie.
"Right you are! No, not the whole of us," (as there was a general family move). "Three's enough!"
So a deputation, consisting of Everard, Lilias, and Dulcie, promptly presented themselves at the study door and tapped for admission. As there was no reply to a second rap, they opened the door and walked into the room. Grandfather was rather deaf, and sometimes, when he had ignored a summons, he would say: "Well, why didn't you come in?" He was generally to be found writing letters at this hour in the morning, but to-day the revolving chair was empty. He had apparently begun his usual correspondence, for his desk was littered with papers. Leaning up against the ink-pot there was a photograph. The young people, who had walked across the room towards the window, could not fail to notice it, for it was tilted in such a prominent place that it at once attracted their attention. It represented a very pretty dark-eyed young lady, holding a baby on her lap, with a slight background of Greek columns. The decidedly foreign look about it was justified by the photographer's name in the corner: "Carlo Salviati, Palermo." Over the top was written in ink, in a man's handwriting: "My wife and Leslie, from Tristram."
"Who is it?" asked Everard, gazing at the portrait with curiosity. "She's rather decent looking. Never seen her here, though, that I can remember!"
"It's a ducky little baby! But who is Tristram?" said Dulcie.
"We had an Uncle Tristram once," answered Lilias doubtfully.
"Why, but he died years and years ago, when we were all kids!" returned Everard.