“Through liking his father, and loving his sister,” replied Ogden glibly.
“Eh? His sister?”
“Yes, his sister Carol. She couldn’t see me,” continued Ogden cheerfully. “She married a man named Morrison and went to Colorado. Hugh received word yesterday that her husband has died. She is left with two little children” (Miss Frink began to stiffen mechanically, and Ogden saw it), “but she is a young woman after your own heart. Her husband’s illness was a long one, and she learned his business in order to carry it on, and she won’t allow Hugh to come out there or worry himself about her.”
Miss Frink gazed at him with unconscious fixedness. “Yes. His mother’s name was Carol,” was the thought behind her stiff lips.
“Hugh couldn’t seem to find himself when he came back from France, and was rather down in the mouth when I got hold of him, so I thought. He is so young, it would be better for him to learn a business from the bottom up, and I thought of Ross Graham’s.”
“Oh, you thought of Ross Graham’s.” Miss Frink nodded slowly and continued to meet her companion’s debonair look. “I wonder why you thought of Ross Graham’s.”
“I told you in my letter of introduction,” responded Ogden, without hesitation. “It is just one of the compact pieces of perfection that you have been bringing about all your life.”
Miss Frink nodded acceptance of the compliment and of his self-possession.
“I should say his nerve was one piece of perfection,” she reflected; and then her habit of honest thought questioned how she would have received the frank proposition. If John Ogden had come to her with the information that she had a robust, handsome, grand-nephew, Philip Sinclair’s son, who needed a boost toward finding his right place in the world, would she have listened to him? Would she have received the boy? She would not, and she knew it.