"What do you want to know about him?"
"Who he was, where he came from, who his people were."
"He was tall," answered Mrs. Bent. "He hadn't many relatives. He lived in Baltimore."
Eleanor saw her mother's hand shake. She had the uncomfortable sensation of one who is pursuing a perfectly correct course, but who is at the same time made to feel that he is entirely wrong.
"Could he write?"
"Could he write?" repeated Mrs. Bent.
"Stories, I mean. I thought that perhaps I had inherited my talent—if I have any talent—from him. I thought perhaps he had written."
"I never heard anything of his writing stories." Mrs. Bent was folding up her work as though she planned for flight, but Eleanor was determined that the conversation should not end.
"Mother—"